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Post by theo on Apr 8, 2007 9:43:55 GMT -5
Simplistic things. Crazy things. Horrendous things. No matter how bad, they would eventually be over. The great wheel of time does not slow its pace for one generic being. They're too small, and insignific compared to God. But, one must give thanks for this ceaseless mechanism. As much as they wish it to stop, it cannont, and in the end, the world feels much better after the seasons have changed. They say time heals everything, however, they never say how.
Time heals things by digging a six-foot hole and tossing dirt back over it. It buries it and erects a tombstone, because nobody can ever really forget, but since the body is out of sight, nothing can be felt. Lives are composed of these tombstones, filed neatly in rows in the cemetary that is memory; conscience. And if lucky, one would never have to stumble across this gray wasteland. But sometimes the rains are fickle, eroding away at the soil until the demons are in plain view. And once again, time presses on, like a gravedigger it goes back on with its shovel wrought of guilt, fear, and anger.
Sandy's graveyard was most trecherous to meander through. The graves only half-full of dirt, and if one wasn't paying attention, could fall right in and potentially be buried with it. Sandy allowed himself no slack when passing through. Sometimes he would go, quite frequently, during the day to pay his respects. He would be caught sometimes with a shovel in his own hands, to hurry up the process, and other times pleading the gravediggers to stop. But they don't falter, for time presses on, and only his tears may erode away the soil.
Nowadays he frequented his wasteland less often. Sandy had other things to concern him with, to get his mind away and let time go on with its work unheeded. But sometimes he felt guilty for not going back. Would they be deeply offended if he didn't remember them anymore? This question prosed a problem in Sandy's mind quite frequently. As it did right now.
It would seem the longer he left the more dangerous the territory became. Sandy sat in the back of Starbucks, his laptop on the small, two-person table before him. A few papers were scattered about, his coffee sitting in a precarious position on the edge of the table. A pencil was in his hands, mechanically being twisted and manipulated in an easily comprehendable pattern. He was resting heavily, staring out, seemingly, into space. His haunting blue eyes brought to a ghostly coldness.
But Sandy was in fact, staring at something rather than nothing. There was a poster on the fall wall's bulitin board. A "Free Tibet" rally downtown to raise money and increase awareness and whatnot. At first he was quite keen on scribbling down the information with the pencil in his hand and the piece of paper on his keyboard, but then he was floored. Rallies were always a big family affair for the Thomas'. Sandy hadn't been since his parents died some four years ago. He was caught at a crossroads.
To go or not to go was a probing question he couldn't escape from easily without feeling guilty. To go would be an honorable thing to do, but would bring so much emotion back that it might undo all the work that time had did. But to not go would be an insult to his character, and his parents' delicate memory. To go might be excruciating, but it would lead to moving on. Not going would be the easy way out and would lead to plain old forgetting. Sandy was dumbfounded at the context of his problem.
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