like a dragon in winter
It’s odd but I was once told that writing ’bout feelings would be like releasing the steam from a pent up valve…well…I tried & the truth is it isn’t much different from when I just don’t say or do anything…perhaps I was asking too much of the action…I don’t know*shrug*not matter what I do I still end up at the same point that I always end up at…a vague kind of melancholy resignation…brutally put I don’t think Time heals all wounds…what it does do is take the glaring patina off the surface of one’s wounds & films over the whole gaping mess…kinda like cataracts really…you vaguely remember what it was you were angry about but you’re just too tired to bother anymore no matter the twinges that accompany the machinations of Memory…with enough time you even manage to accept the whole situation but if it’s something that hurt like hell you kind of…forget really…not like amnesia…more like a window that’s been frosted over or like those images that one catches at the edge of one’s peripheral vision…it’s still there but stuff’s just mostly blurry…whatever…one thing good about all this is that Time really does dull your senses so with enough time & care you learn not to care all that much about anything…therefore I suspect that the old adage is really a misnomer…you do feel the wounds somewhat & you do care but in the end you just don’t care enough
