I am a person who, well, dwells on the past quite frequently. I mean, I should've been a historian because I revel in history so frequently. I guess you could call me a "history buff," too, of sorts, though I do not collect Confederate swords or wax stamps from the Victorian era. Nor can I spout out verbally every turning point of the battles of our country's wars. I do admire those who are able to do such things, however, one of which being Dad. He is like a walking history lesson, and I always feel richer, wiser, and more well-rounded after one of his expositions. Though I adore history, and swear sometimes I was born in the wrong decade (I think I would have fit right into the times of the 1930s and 40s), I am not talking about that kind of past. The past I dwell on most frequently is my own, these (almost) 27 years that God has allowed me to live here on earth. The journeys I've taken, the experiences I've had, the moves I've made, the friends I
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