Memoirs in English class. FUNNNNNNNN! I loved Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes. As an exercise today, we wrote. And I had so many good ideas that I left the class writing and I wrote while walking when windy on my way back to Hash. I was writing about my best friend as a short person and my whole childhood kinda came out of my head and on to the paper. I even wrote a little about the first girl who kissed me. Second or first grade.

Time doesn't work well with my mind. I don't know when what happened, time is random in my head. If someone wanted to look at the way my mind interprets time they would be looking at an unwritten Vonnegut novel. It seems as though time is categorized by subject instead of chronologically. This thought has always been around. I just don't get the construct of time. The fourth dimension is just beyond my grasp, or maybe I see it too well. Who knows. I'm not sure what's wrong with my head. Many things I suppose.

Age tells your time. And how you look at every age is reflected on your face. But that is really of not much consequence, it is merely a reflection of your time and how you spent it. If you spent it out in the sun experiencing what nature has to offer you will have wrinkles and freckles and darkened skin. But there is a glow that the sun imparts. And the memories of the fish you met while snorkeling in the ocean will make your eyes sparkle when you are old and can snorkel no more.

Time is an illusion which slows to a crawl when there is a bitterness that you cannot seem to let go of. It lasts longer when there is a pain that you subject yourself to repeatedly. I am no masochist. I have no desire for pain. But I bang my head against the wall that was my family again and again hoping for a miracle. When I look in the mirror all I can see is blood trickling down my face in all of its morbidity, I walk back to the wall and start all over again.

Time is an illusion that pretends to make you forget. Because life has so many facets and my brain is too simple to drink it all in, I sometimes think I forgot the pain - until I am faced with a reminder of the awful past and in all vividness it feels like it happened all over again. Time makes you think you can say anything because it can make you disregard the future. But the future always comes and the past always comes back. It's a never ending cycle and yet in all foolishness people say hurtful things that they later expect to fade in time.

There is a virtual letter that hurts me. And I could pretend to forgive and forget under the pretense of time. But I am no pretender though sometimes I wish I could be so I can mask my truth and have people leave me be. But that is not my life. That cannot be me. The virtual letter is simply light on my screen. In my real world it does not truly exist. It merely floats in cyberspace. To acknowledge it is to feel pain. To pretend I never read it is impossible. The feelings that came with reading it are horrible. And I truly regret opening that letter and reading it. I am tempted to post it so the truth of it may be revealed. But what is the point of revealing a truth the no one wants to see?

Time is an illusion. It makes me think that with age I will be able to come to terms with all the hurt and take it like a man. It cannot dull the pain, it cannot teach me acceptance. But I find that love can.