History Isn't What Happened, History Is Just

One Of The Troubles Is This: The Heart Isn't Heart-shaped.

All Bad Things Are Exaggerated In The Middle Of The Night. When You Lie Awake, You Only Think Of Bad Things.

We Live In Time, It Bounds Us And Defines Us, And Time Is Supposed To Measure History, Isn't It? But If We Can't Understand Time, Can't Grasp Its Mysteries Of Pace And Progress, What Chance Do We Have With History--even Our Own Small, Personal, Largely Undocumented Piece Of It?

And No, It Wasn't Shame I Now Felt, Or Guilt, But Something Rarer In My Life And Stronger Than Both: Remorse. A Feeling Which Is More Complicated, Curdled, And Primeval. Whose Chief Characteristic Is That Nothing Can Be Done About It: Too Much Time Has Passed, Too Much Damage Has Been Done, For Amends To Be Made.

Time...give Us Enough Time And Our Best-supported Decisions Will Seem Wobbly, Our Certainties Whimsical.