7

The number seven has always served a time-line of demarcation for me, a sort of boundary diving the recent and distant past. It's not sensical at all, and I really don't have a reason why, other than for some reason, the distance between six and seven has always seemed much greater to me than reality. I bring this up because, well, it's 2007.

A memory crossed my mind the other day where I was remember something that happened in 2000. I don't quite recall what it was, but it struck me that seven years ago is a long time.

The cruel irony of time is that its realative; the older you get, the faster time seems to pass. Yet, this reality doesn't seem to want to sink in. And I worry. Not so much about the past, but more so, that my attempts to "live in the present" are being lost. I'm starting to wonder if because of my life-long battle of trying to rectify the past, I'm missing the present. Maybe my "living in the present" is really living just slightly behind real time.