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Tim Cantor, 2009

Ask me if I’d go back; I’d likely say no;

but sometimes I wish I knew less then I do. My memories are obscure from so long ago; obscure and distorted, blurred and fantastic. Childhood. The specifics are faint, details, lost, but what I recall, above all, are the pains and appeals of lesser events. The trivial was critical, and the chairs, they sat, so high above the ground. Everything had magnitude. Everything was important. The invisible, was seen. The familiar, strange. Everything, new. One wish, one day, new wants, the next day. The next day, however, lingered so far away. A minute was an hour. An hour was a lifetime. The clock ticked slower. Time was a hindrance - not the gift it grows to be. That’s probably why circumstances changed from one day to the next day. A question gets answered; fascination fulfilled, now on to the next; because there are so many questions, such easy little questions, straight forward, direct, blunt little questions: A thousand square answers gained in a day - fascination fulfilled. Not like today. The questions are complex, unclear, answerless. Maturity, however, demands resolution - Hence goes this march through cobwebs of reason and theory, ego and faith; never to rest on one solid truth. As I speak of it now, it seems that I might, but the answer is clear - If I could go back - No, I would not. I’m pleased where I am. Knowing what I know, how easy things change; I would not take the chance. Still, the past has traits, though distant and vague, shallow and green; it has pieces of treasure that I wish had now. Tall chairs, slow clocks, simplicity, simplicity.

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