We get wounded just by being, here
On this plane where we never know quite what the other thinks
So we dream words into imagined conversations
Then forget they weren’t real
Until our fantasies are shown up by reality
Our thin skins sliced open with razor-wired passive aggression
We get wounded because we’re human
Subject to gravity
But we forget we can’t fly so we fall
We believe in the magic that surrounds us
Until the spells no longer work
Leaving us open to what we call accidents
Usually the inevitable consequence of careless actions
Since we’re human
We are subject to disease
Carried internally or randomly caught
We get wounded by our bodies and onslaughts of germs
Microbes and infections take their toll
So that good health just means dying as slowly as possible
And when time heals
As it sometimes does
Sometimes the prescription is simply death
Transcendence from here to there instead of some miraculous repair
But time does move for us
And moves us from one state to another
Even if change isn’t exactly healing
We learn to live with our scars and amputations
Our reduced capacity and limitations
But what if time itself is sick and needs healing time
Does time heal its own wounds I wonder
Or is there some other soporific that puts time to sleep
Into a zone where rules no longer hold sway
Where timedreams shimmer like northern lights skydancing
Where metronomes lose their precision
And fluidly count the beat of nothingness in the void of eternity
Sinking into the interminable stretch of hospital time
Where minutes and hours co-exist in some quantum contradiction
Providing healing time for time
At least temporarily
Since time is its own chronic condition
David Trudel © 2013
