Days Are Stacking Up Everywhere

We're getting to the end of the year. It's almost 365 ex-days we've got stacked up everywhere. And with age, I'm getting quite a collection. I'm still tripping over a few months from earlier in the decade! And there's a few days and incidents from the '90s that still pop up now and then!

That's the way my life goes. I'll have a simple enough collection, something I'm passionate about, that seeks completion, then it becomes a behemoth and I think I should pare it back (if only I could), so I stack it up somewhere, get plastic totes, then implement a complicated inventory system to keep the totes straight. Next thing, I have a system of warehouses, storage facilities, safety deposit boxes, electric eyes for security, and I have to show two forms of ID and a thumbprint just to see it. I have to convince the guards I'm really me.

Even time is like that. I have plans for each day, then if I don't get around to it, my plans become backlogged, stoved up, itching either for release back into the wild or a quick disposal of their case. Some things you just have to part with. "If you really love it, you have to let it go." But I can't let you go because I love you too much. My thought processes say to me, How did I ever let prehistoric times go? Because fortunately I wasn't alive all these millions of years.

We need a self help group for "People Who Love Time Too Much."

There's a definite thought in there somewhere. Which is why worry about the times you've had when you don't worry about the times you didn't have? And someday you're not going to worry about the times you'll never see, so why let the visible ones get you down?

We've got another Happy New Year coming, right around the corner, and all the days of this present year still with us in memory. Plus the plans that were never realized, that now we need to let go, if only we can. I'd love to just forgive myself for not getting it done.

Maybe I'll do that. Just forgive myself for this and that. Then I'll have a whole massive collection of memories of forgivenesses. All catalogued and neatly arranged, until they start stacking up, falling against each other, and needing their own warehouse.