Time heals all wounds, they say. When you’re grieving, give it time. Things get better with time. So, you do. What is time? Is it a magic wizard with spells that can solve all problems? Or is it the supreme which can bend the universe to find a solution? Neither. Time is the
hurt you endure as you go about your day. The first thought you ignore when you open your eyes, the memory you shrug in the middle of work. Time is the aimless walks and directionless drives. Time is the blank stares and the hidden cries. Time is every single moment of that gut-wrenching pain.
But even then time doesn’t heal anything. Healing is a myth. You stand at the hilltop feeling sick to your stomach. You think you have healed, grown, made progress, moved on, but it all comes crashing down with the faintest hint of a memory. Time does nothing except push the hurt back behind the walls of silence. Walls that come crashing down with a single scent, an abandoned road, a song you don’t play anymore, and a five-letter word you utter in innocence.
We give things time because there is nothing else we can do. But we never truly heal. Or do we?