I cannot go back in time. But I can do the next best thing: start making positive improvements in my life right now.

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  1. All is extremely complex, mystifying, and mentally challenging. “Oh, leave me alone! I am a robot. Let me, as it were, Sleep. I am the waking dead. Things like that.” All these metaphors provided me to relate to What?, ‘reality’, and I have these metaphors like a basket of red-shiny apples, every day I pick them up and shine them off in my use of them. I use a white cloth, my rubbing cloth. They work. I mean they function. I get by. They ARE my doing. My coming and my going in the morning and in the evening. I stitch together ‘a seamless past/present/future where I exist along with everything that was, is, or will be, practically speaking, within my imagination, my conscious grasp. (And I have a weak consciousness, I think! When I look ‘back’, I was so stupid. Embarrassing. My apples, then! Fuck! Dull russets with blight scabs.) Upon some information, I have re-imagined myself. I think I’m real. Somehow hard-as-steel real. I imagine with some success every detail and entity of my world. I hear myself ‘I cannot go back in time…’, and, well, I don’t dare investigate seriously what I am saying. What am I saying? Imaginings do better not being thought about. Why replace with other imaginings. I don’t know. 5 minutes ago, by the clock, I sat down here and began typing what you now read. That time, I warrant, does not exist now somewhere, is not saved, and I can say the same about the finely-split second I am in now. I suppose Sir Isaac Newton applied the infinite function, the tangent to his own mind, and would never get to that final point, The Present. Like me, his uptime point eludes comprehension, real comprehension, not just a law in math. Again: All metaphor. I am quite sure I’m at least material in the universe, like a framed triangle in space among the infinite galaxies of stars, welded with real metal at the intersections of pieces, but I cannot say anything to explain time, anything about the continuity of my material being. I don’t know what is time. Do I exist in time, like I would stand in water? I do know I have memory. I can now sift through events involving myself from today. I have this recording, but the medium I recorded it all from, if there was one, I don’t understand. No, I don’t. I pick out of my basket like shiny-red apples my metaphors, and I paint the most satisfying and soothing pictures of ‘the world’. So for me to change course, be a better person tomorrow than I was today, do I select from my basket better, redder, more shiny metaphors, ones that other persons seem to like better. And I will do my living through them, as Jesus commanded, I must come- can only come- to the Father through Him. ‘Come to the Father…’?? ‘Come to the Father…”? Improve. Sounds like it. Come to. My apples. My basket. The old familiar ones I shine. My basket. My apples. So many I could shine. My white cloth I keep in my hind pocket. Among the stars, surely seen from somewhere, I carry my basket and I shine my apples. This must be the way I become better. Shine harder. Shine other apples. Improve my basket. Till I’m nothing but atoms, restocked in the Infinite Storeroom, The Periodic Table, and in time, or out of it, till I…who? what?….till…till…I look down at the keys, bread crumbs resting in the groves among them, and I say, What? What? I don’t know. I know bread crumbs. Have metaphors and Know. Look up in darkest night to the Universe and weave its constellations into your dreams. Have it, too, The Universe, in your basket. It’s in mine, though I ignore it too much. So, I’m some of the ‘time’ miserable, I think.

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