As you walk out of the very small room, you see a mirror, framed in river stones, calling out at you to have a look. And when you look into that mirror, which is nothing more than the reflection of your life, you see the brutalities you've inflicted and the violences you've committed.
Something new, you search not to deny, because despite the dust covering that mirror, you can still see the traces of what has happened. You do not seek excuses, there are none. Or reasons, do they matter? Or even redemption, you're not there yet. You take a deep breath and exhale, hard, sending a cloud of sparkling dust flying into the air. And as it settles you see, are relieved to see, the imprint of softness in the brutality and sweetness in the violence.
Nothing, despite your attempts to prove the contrary, will ever be exactly and only what it is. You receive it as the blessing, the kiss it is: there is no category for this.