There’s a song that goes like
“I walk this empty street
On the boulevard of broken dreams”
And I always wonder if the singer ever stops feeling lonely
If they ever stop walking their road and go home to rest
And I, I want to go home
Home where, when you enter, you suddenly feel warmed and recharged with life
And I, I want to go home
But I don’t know where home is
Because nothing feels like home, really
And I’m tired or
More like exhausted
But not because I’ve walked too much
Or because I’ve worked a lot, no
I’m exhausted from living really
Holding too much hope when everything ever is lost and hopeless from the beginning
And I just always fail to see it
People say that things will get better
But how would they know, really?
People’ve never been in my shoes
They don’t know my story
Yet they talk as if they do
Even if I try to lay it all outside, there’s always something that cannot really go through
Something that stays unsaid or
Said but fairly misunderstood or
Understood but not quite comprehended or
Comprehended but taken as exaggeration
And people say that it’s not that bad really
They say that time heals everything
But I’ve never found it
The pharmacy that sales “time”
And I can’t inject it into my system
And wait for it to cure me
Sometimes I think that “time” is a magical flower
Like those described in children’s happy books
The flower is so exceptional and rare that three sons sail on a journey to find it
Each on different path, encountering adventures, fighting three-headed dragons, making friends, meeting mermaids
And the boys return home as men
But only the youngest son reveals the most awaited magic
At the end, the flower glows, the father is saved and the men get married to the women with golden hair
The book’s last page is painted with the magical red and gold flower at the center, glowing and sparkling
In the back, long in the distance is the father’s old but lovely house
The elderly man in front is surrounded by his sons who are holding the hands of the most beautiful princesses
And they are all smiling
Because they are at home
And there is no place like home
The book is closed and child is asleep

Sometimes I imagine that “time” is just a concept, created by the human brain
That “time” doesn’t exist and nothing ever moves forward
Like “time” is the illusion, we came up with, to ignore our pain
Maybe with the hope to forget about how misfit we feel
And I wish “time” could help me too
But “time” doesn’t erase scars, cut deep into the skin
Nor does it glue back broken parts, dissolved into the soil
“Time” can’t paint new paths to long lost roads, flooded with cold tears and hot blood
It can’t translate never spoken words, kept hidden underneath the screams of silence
It can’t build up a home with bricks made of depression and wood of fake smiles
“Time” can’t fill the emptiness inside a human’s heart with sharp blades
It can’t treat the numbing with mental disorders
“Time” is no remedy
It does not cure any problems
“Time” leaves them unattended, collecting dust, making us getting used to our pain, really