Time’s not a healer. For me the passing years just make me tired. Not the kind of weariness that sleep will allow you to wake from rested. It’s a soul stretched, thinness. A spirit all skeleton and no muscle.
Imagine a picture, a photograph. A perfect moment captured compete. I have one, well several. But one in particular. I carry it in my pocket. Every day and always. Everywhere I go I have that memory next to me. Close.
Sometimes, that photograph, that instance of a perfect moment makes me almost weightless. I can stride giants steps, float on a breath of air and sail above it all.
But mostly, the knowledge that the moment has passed, that perfect moment, the memory of it and all the others we shared, being gone, being passed, never to be repeated, carried forward or ever being more than just a photograph, a static dead moment, weighs more than the world.
The weight of that picture, that perfect moment, sat silent and still in my pocket feels the weight of every year passed since it’s taking, and some days just pins me in place. I try to move forward. The best I can manage is to stumble, fall ever inwards around the same small circle. Getting nowhere, feeling nothing but dizzy, confused and tired.
Time’s not a healer, it’s just minutes flying past, hours pulling at your heart and days filled with memories that the years want to steal.
I have a photograph, it’s here in my pocket and it weighs as heavy as a world.