I suppose as a corollary to my last observation, then the old adage “time heals all wounds” isn’t actually true.

Time just renders the pain meaningless.

That’s kind of fatalistic in a way.

I love how time makes things lose meaning.  Perhaps love is too strong a word for it, but it’s an interesting phenomena to me.  Something we write about, something we talk about, so passionately at one point will, given time, fade into meaninglessness.  And yet it’s not meaningless.  There’s the meaning of what was, and what it has become.  That which once was a meditation on one subject can become beautiful and poetic not because of its definition but rather because of its aesthetic value, it’s sense of construction.

Does something that has an intrinsic mysterious value – meaning a value that none but the author understand – have meaning outside of its construction?  Does that value remain after I have written the words, read the words, forgotten the words?

All of this fascinates me to no end.