Time heals. And can some wise soul please tell me just how? Is it a balm or is Time the doc with the magical hands that every patient desires to touch and feel? If he's a doc, has someone bothered to check his credentials? So far, He hasn't healed any of my wounds. Not those my parents inflicted, neither those the sons of bitches caused, not the ones so called friends imposed and certainly not those that were meted out in the name of love. These wounds keep oozing pus every once in a while and those mental band-aids soak, so I change them and stick on fresh ones. But for how long?
Can't I be stricken with selective amnesia, at least?
There are theories and there are theories on Time the healer, the ravages of time, on wasting it and managing it. Have you ever stopped to think just how controversial they all are. If it's a healer, why does it plunder, in the first place? If it is wasted, then why bother to manage it? No seriously, I'm as boggled by the theory of the healer as by spiels on how to manage time effectively so you can fit in the world's chores and yours and yet hit the bed at midnight with a smile on your lips and a rush of adrenalin in your body, ready to take on the same circus next day and the day after.
How long, just how long can I keep the facade going?
Time will tell, I guess.