• A mans past is a funny thing. In order to move past it, he must overcome it. He must defeat it, but how can he defeat what made him? It's a delicate thing. Some say that the past is behind you, and that the future is ahead of you. I disagree. I am surrounded by time. Every fleeting second of now pulls and pushes at the mind like the waves of the sea. Sometimes what comes ashore are the memories of times past, and sometimes it's a glimpse of future plans, but whatever it is it never stays for long. However, sometimes these waves of time can become tsunamis.

    Her eyes were an intense bright brown, like cooling embers still warm from the previous nights fire. He could tell from her look that she was in pain, and that it was because of him. If he told her that he loved her now, she'd never believe him. She was too strong to accept such a lazy response. She wanted medicine for her wounds, a comfort from his words, but he couldn't speak. It was already too late for it. He couldn't even find answers to his own questions anymore. He was a broken healer without the remedy for any ones suffering. She felt cheated and left him to crash his own sinking ship into the harbor. The wounded healer had no one else. He was a mere reflection of his previous self, a distorted image on the surface of rippling waters, left only with his new pestilence of sorrow. A voice once so full, now silenced in his mind. The thoughts became like the venom of a snake, a medicine turned poison, and his words became the fangs in which it could be spread, and so he hardly ever spoke, leaving his soul to battle it's poison alone, like a snake biting it's own tail. He was the pus in the wound. It is not beautiful. It is cruel and it is nasty, and the proper ones will see the sight and shield their eyes, smell the stench and curl their noses, but do not forget that it is the pus that drinks away the foulness and restores the blood. There is a purpose for all things in the natural world, and sometimes the world can only be cleansed by disease.