Writ of What Clocks Measure

Some say there is no such thing as time. Time, the distance between moments, is a human construct. It is all we remember, all we expect, and the brief opportunity to smuggle the latter into the former.

This blog is a journal of all those attempts, as well as a physical record of all the joy, anger, mirth, and depression that went into each success and failure, as well as the simple discovery of which was which.

8 years of that journey are incompletely chronicled here. History, I think, is the human attempt to structure and encapsulate time. In recording, there is a hope to find a reason to all things. And I've gotten used to judging my life by its progress, like a movie plot.

So far, it's been a dreary screening--my writing as of late is telling--and it strikes me as wasteful. Shit happens, everyday; and miracles, too, just as plenty. For something so arbitrary, I think it's a mistake to attach value to life as a whole.

I realize that the good and the bad are separate, distinct, and equally meaningful. They are meaningful because we learn through them. Nostalgia is probably all the mixed emotions we feel when we uncover a little of our truth as we sift through the past.

So let's not spend effort on defining who we are now, but instead find pride in who we've been, and nourish anticipation for who we'll become. And what that shall entail will always be a personal decision. Somehow, life is a constant attempt at defining who we are.

So to all things I hope for and fear for, to all I cherish and regret, let this be my binding vow to bear witness to life, and to chronicle through imperfect words my imperfect perception of all its meaning, one second at a time.

Oh, and happy 2000 main-page hits! Because where there is drama, there will shortly follow an audience.