Sunday Morning Thoughts: 3.26.17

Time does not heal all wounds. Time heals no wounds. It can only numb. Emotional Novocain. Time, by itself, can do nothing aside from distance you from the moment in which such an incident occurs. The rest is on you. On me. Us.

Apologies. I know I’ve quite positive on the outlook with these last few. That may have been misleading. Not to say that negativity is the proper reality. It isn’t. But the world has no shortage of it. And it would be improper to just ignore it.

It may just be that I’m mad at myself. There was a beautiful young woman last night. At the bar. She was writing something down. On a napkin. I looked at her once. She, at me. Then I said nothing and she left. Change the record, right?

I would much sooner run into a burning building than start a conversation with someone I’m attracted to. Much sooner. That is the kind of cowardice I hold. Though, it was not always that way. But time, heals no wounds.

I woke up later than I intended this morning, which a younger version of your author here would have called madness. I went out last night and still rose before 9am. But now, already, I feel pressed for time. Like I said, madness.

Today, I shall go to a neighborhood I am not from. A neighborhood that I fell in love with an age ago. Smiling and doe eyed. I still love that neighborhood but the road has been long. I expect to have a grand time. Though, that neighborhood was also the setting for my moment of being as sad as a young romantic can be. An age ago. Time heals no wounds.

But I’ve learned how to bandage myself up. If I recall correctly, which I very often do not, my compatriot in the Saturday night excursion told me that beautiful young woman had a boyfriend. But that was after her departure. Possibly to console my misfortune. Though, I do not care. In fact, I could not give one giant, flying fuck if she had a boyfriend. And the reality is, I don’t believe she did either. She was, after all, in a bar by herself around midnight on a Saturday. Well, Sunday technically. Sunday morning. But if she did have a boyfriend, he was most certainly an ass. Why else would she be out? Writing things down on bar napkins. But time heals no wounds. We do. Through whiskey or otherwise.

But why waste more time on the hypotheticals I evidently could not be bothered to make actual? Because I am not sure how else to waste time this morning. Or because if I don’t rationalize my inactions, I might be forced to act upon an impulse again. One of these days. And how horrible would that be.

But I’m stalling. And I couldn’t even tell you what for.

So, I’ll get to it then. If I could proffer some advice, which I should not be allowed to, it would be this. Don’t count on time. It won’t help you. It will only betray you. At least inactive time. It will not fix you. It will not make the cloudy, clear. It will wither you away. The only time that you can do anything in, is this very fleeting moment. See there? It is already gone. And what did you do? At the very least, I mustered up the courage to write. And hopefully, I can muster up a conversation the next time I feel the urge. If I don’t, nothing will change. Certainly, not for the better.

Because time heals no wounds. Just we do. You do. I do. Maybe.

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