When does the healing end? When do the old ghosts stop rattling their chains in your bones? They say time is the great healer, but time is also a thief. It can steal innocence, families, safe and warm memories. It smooths over the jagged edges, sure, but does it ever really fill the cracks?
Happiness approaches and passes, moves, shapeshifts…slipping through the cracks in your fingers, in your mind, leaving only the echo of its warmth. You can laugh with it, dance with it, but you can’t pin it down. It doesn’t stay, not in this world where the ground is always shifting. How do you make peace with that? How do you let it touch you without aching for more?
Hope—how do you hold onto that flimsy thing? How do you keep it alive when it flickers like a candle in a storm, when it’s so small, so fragile? Maybe it isn’t something you can hold at all. Maybe it’s something you have to breathe in, let it fill your lungs, let it become part of you. Maybe it’s in the way you keep moving forward, even when you want to stop, even when the road stretches out too far, too long.
Is there ever an end to the healing? Or do we just learn to live with the wounds, with the scars, with the ghosts that never quite fade? Maybe healing is just the way we learn to dance with the shadows, the way we learn to keep hoping, even when the world feels dark.
B 🤍
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