Sometimes, I think about time. I wonder how other people visualize it. I wonder if you see time like a board-game path circling the blackness of your mind.
This morning, I’m thinking about November 18.
On November 18, 2008, I gave a Modern British Fiction presentation on Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse. I was a senior in college. I felt connected to my words about Mrs. Ramsay’s attempts to turn a dinner party into a spiritual journey. My team had just accomplished uplifting athletic achievements. My world was right in front of me and nowhere else. I had complete control; even if I believed I understood Mrs. Ramsay’s pilgrimage to understanding the inevitability of moments dissolving with the passage of time, I really had no idea.
On November 18, 2009, I had completed two of the thirty-two days I spent in Cambodia doing non-profit work, attempting to save the world through children. I was carsick and dehydrated. I felt confused about the nature of helping and wondered what kind of difference my hands and heart and mind could ever make. I was about to clash with people who were supposed to be my teammates. It wasn’t about my world anymore. I had no control; everything I had thought about myself and the world seemed to be escaping my brain. My head pounded and I couldn’t eat.
Today is November 18, 2010. I don’t even know what to say about it.
I wish I could analyze my life like a novel.