I believe the statement “time heals all wounds” is a lie. On August 3, 2005, I learned of my brother’s death in Iraq. And there, in that moment, faced with the reality of death and the loss of such a good friend, I decided never to heal this wound. This wound would shape me, it would drive me and it would fill my spirit with pain. I believe that if I stop to heal this wound, I will cease to be. I will become apart of the world that chooses to move on. A world that has decided to live with fate and then sits and waits out the inevitable sickly call of death. Why should I come to grips with this death? I will carry it in my heart as a black hole that grows as time goes on. The pain will get worse with each breath and the anguish will rush over me each time I exhale. I am stuck in a rut that will pull me down farther into the blackness and it will force me to remember. Remember who he was, and what he would have become. Remember his children and what they will miss. Remember all the times we laughed and how empty it will be without him. Remember, so that each time I hear someone speak about death, they can look at me and see the blackness in my heart. I know that everyone will have death knock on their door, and maybe they will find comfort in that evil little statement. Maybe they will take the easy way out, and smile when they think of their loved ones. They will feel that time does heal all wounds, and then let the memory of their loved ones pass into the history of time and space. But not me, I am destined to carry this with me until I am called home by the blackness of death. I wish I was stronger and that I could move on and see the life ahead of me. But here I sit, on my throne of pain and anger, waiting out time and screaming into the dark. So you can keep your statement, and you use it for yourself. As for me, I believe time infects all wounds. It festers and leaves you empty. It eats at your soul and causes you to stop and see the world for what it is. Beautiful but filled with wounds.
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