Reversal of Fate

It is a shame that time is said to be linear on this Earth; to envision time as fluid, capable of bending and swirling away from its own relentless course, is to imagine rainbows illuminating the skies every time a heart shatters, every tear cascading from weary eyes allowing for the fleeting glimpse of a distant horizon, vibrant in its hues, promising to dry our tears and mend our broken hearts. I hold tightly to the fragile notion that, when the world crumbles, the once-envisioned ideals fade into shadows, orchestrated by unseen hands. I would hold my breath, yearning for a return to innocence, to moments untouched by real pain, to a bounty of tears that could have drowned us in life’s tumult—wounds I nursed in solitude, as reaching for help felt like uttering a foreign tongue, incomprehensible and barred. I wish for a time when my children and their children will bask in the tranquil glow and luster of life that was so insidiously stolen from me; each day is but a rippling moment, an anticipation for a singular spark of joy, echoes of a remnant that stretch further than the last. I would like to envy those who speak of happiness, yet my heart and mind remain an ancient, rusted well, its cold, unyielding droplets falling with agonizing slowness, perpetually teetering at the brink, spilling over yet lingering in an eternal drip-drop, a sound I’ve come to loathe, for when those tales of joy flood my senses, they bring stillness to my weary well—an unexpected quietude I find myself cherishing, a pause devoid of a single drop. Thus, I remain spellbound by those who weave stories of joy, my inner child rife with cynicism, unable to fully embrace these fanciful accounts, just as cynical as the longing to hold my breath for a time when we might turn back the wheel, retreating to an era before the weight of pain became so overwhelming, the air laden with an unbearable thickness that makes even the simple act of breathing feel laborious. I hope for a day when time may reverse, broken hearts healed, unspoken words finally voiced, a place where cold vessels cease to tip. Until then, I will cling to what warmth is left within this rusted house, seeking to bring solace to those faces stained with tears, to those burdened by shattered hearts and souls, even while I remain untouched by the marvel of having my own heart eased or my tears wiped away from my pale, lifeless visage; the mere glimmer of understanding reflected in another’s eye, the subtle curve of a sly smile gracing their lips, brings me some comfort, a whisper of possibility that perhaps true happiness and joy exists, and just maybe, time is not as rigidly linear as we have all believed in the confines of this world.

♾️M