Scrambled Egg In a Cup.

This isn't about scrambled egg in a cup. It's about time, impermanence, infinity, eternity and all that jazz. But it starts out with scrambled egg in a cup. Just giving you a heads up in case you think this is going to be some heartwarming nostalgia type thing. It's not.
When I was a kid, my favorite food was scrambled egg in a cup. My mum (Scottish)would soft boil an egg, put it in a cup with some salt and butter, scramble it up and serve it to me with toast soldiers. I know I loved it, I remember loving it, but I don't remember ever eating it and loving it because at 5 years old she must have undercooked the egg a little too much and I came down with a hideous case of food poisoning. I couldn't stand the look, taste smell or texture of scrambled eggs after that.
So at 5 years old I came down with a massive case of food poisoning and I puked and puked and puked and puked until I passed out, then woke up and puked and passed out until I became completely lost as far as time and space were concerned.
Previous to this poisoning, I had a pretty established routine. I got up in the morning, and I went to bed in the evening when my parents threatened me with Wee Willie Winkie, who would take me away to some kind of labor camp for children if I wasn't in bed when he came knocking.
My routine revolved around television for the most part. The news in the morning until Dad left for work, then a few kids shows until lunch time, mum would watch her soaps in the afternoon and then we'd all watch the same shows at night: Gilligan's Island, Barnaby Jones, Ironside, etc.
This might sound bizarre, but I can pinpoint the day I learned about time, and it was this food poisoning day.
I came to after having been passed out for what seemed like forever. I thought that I had gone to bed at night, yet when I woke up it was night time again. Somehow I'd slept through the whole day. I came out of my bedroom which adjoined the living room to see Gilligan's Island on TV, and the confusion it caused me had my parents giggling away. I was horribly disoriented. Gilligan's Island was something that happened after supper. Supper was something that happened when Dad got home from work. Dad got home from work after the soaps, etc. Yet here I was, a whole day gone, and in my experience none of the event triggers leading up to Gilligan's Island had occurred. It was then that somebody told me it was 7:30.
And at 5 years old I became aware in the most acute and disturbing way that time does not stop, even when you're sleeping.
Since then I've had a few more disturbing revelations concerning time.
I've learned that when you're 16 years old, grade 7 is an era, grade 6 is an era, and the summer between grade 6 and 7 is yet another era. But when you're coming up on 40 years old, then it seems your 20s were an era, your 30s were an era. Somehow the cognizant realization of time hits warp factor 9, and 10 years seem to pass as quickly as a year in school or a summer at the lake.
I've found a way to stem this though, to slow it down so that a summer lasts almost forever again. The secret? Relax. Work less. Play more. If you work a lot, and can't change it, then you have to play a lot more.
I push myself to a state of complete and utter exhaustion every day all summer, every summer. Just because I'm stuck in a little cup of time-space doesn't mean that I can't alter it. I'm going to scramble things up a bit. This year I'm starting summer in the spring. I won't finish it until the fall. And I will play people, and I will play hard.