Mess.

When you heal, you create. You write what hurts. You paint wounds no one can see. You play a sad melody. You dance to a rhythmic heartbreak. You sing someone else’s agony. You narrate tales of longing and belonging. You plant vulnerabilities. You sketch character flaws. When you heal, you create. And sometimes the only thing you create is a mess.

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Healing.

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

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