Time

I lay in my bed listening to music. This is a common practice of mine: listening to music, curled up in blankets. I feel warm, I feel safe, I feel like the words and sounds of the music slowly unwind all of my pent up discouragement and over-expressed emotion. Music heals me. Blankets heal me. Time heals.
It's all about time.
Give it time, it will work out. Give it time, it will resolve itself. Give it time, you will see.
Always give more time--they say. Well time will eventually run out, but I suppose for now I have a bit to spare before my calender no longer has partially-empty days. I suppose for now I can give of the one thing I can't get back.
You can't get time back.
You can't take back days and weeks, years spent doing things that seem to not matter now. You can't take back that first moment when you meet someone, after you wish to not meet them and give them those five minutes of your time that lead to a few hours, days, weeks. You can't take back the time you spend in a corner of a bookshop, writing down what you thought would be a fantastic beginning to the rest of your life. You can't take back the time given to helping your little sister with math homework.
And you shouldn't want to take it back.
Nope.
Don't try and rob yourself of the good that comes out of spent time, out of giving your time, out of wasting your time. You can't get it back, so why waste future time trying to wish it so? Rather, look at the things you learn, gain, give. Benefit from the past.

--P.A.