It was a day of mistakes.

The negative connotation is a little too potent, and it sticks in your nostrils like the smell of tires burning on cement.

Exciting, nonetheless wrong.

It was a day when all I thought about (again) was how little I feel and think like I used to. When rather than imagining and philosophizing I imagine that I still have an imagination.

An oxymoron.

The Day of Mistakes is never just a single day. It is a single day in that there are 24 hours with the potential to mess up.

I know better than anyone that we all have months of these Days in our memories, stapled together and sent to the Department of Edification and Humiliation.

And so I say again: it was a day of mistakes.

Mistake is synonymous with regret and regret is indeed a nasty word. And yet we are constantly reminded, "We all make mistakes and we learn and grow from them."

Do I regret my mistakes? Like everyone, yes and no. When I think of mistakes I think of a little girl wearing a jacket that didn't belong to her and said, "San Francisco" on it who almost believed that if she wished hard enough she could go back in time and make another choice.

I think of myself (how narcissistic of me) and how I still read too much fantasy not to half-believe that time travel exists.

It         was           a           day             of          mistakes.

A day where I didn't feel enough, didn't learn enough, didn't love enough, didn't empathize enough, didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't didn't

didn't.