I know this is probably sickeningly cliché to hear once again and for approximately the millionth time in your life, but each day that passes by advances you twenty-four hours closer to your eventual and certain death. You cannot relive that day. You don’t get a second chance at it; no mulligans! You won’t miraculously gain passage into a secret time machine and suddenly roar backwards in defiance of the Roman calendar while experiencing a Homeric rebirth. None of these things will ever happen, of course; that’s only wishful thinking carried to an extreme. Conversely, time will continue flowing along just like Old Man River, and the upstream locales we witnessed or experienced as recently as yesterday are now gone forever. They are memories…..useless artifacts…..irrelevant residua…..history; completely inaccessible to us anymore irrespective of any and all regrets that we may continue harboring in our hearts germane to them. As such, regrets are ghosts of the past—flowers blooming lustily on the altar of a wedding long since concluded after all the guests have departed. Regrets are cruel that way, but that’s precisely why we want to leave them in the past where they were birthed and still rightfully belong.
Fred's Soapbox 