Stoplights change, and change again. Trains pass by slowly, coming and going without a thought. The sun rises and sets again and again. Church bells toll, and on a nondescript day, nondescript people shuffle quietly into a room intended for comfort in the most trying of times.
Those in attendance speak with quivering voices in hushed tones, praying silently to gods they neither understand nor believe in, wishing themselves to wake from their grief. But there is no reprieve from this depth of pain; no healing but time.
Time. Our sweet, cruel mistress. Time, tragic and gracious, quietly carries us onward. On from our struggles, on from our triumphs, and on from our wounds. One thing it cannot carry us away from is the scar that remains, the mark that is left on us, the visual memory of the hurt. These scars may fade as memory fails, but they never truly leave us, occasionally reminding us of our loss with phantom pains that come as swift and unexpected as cold water during a deep sleep.
Those moments will leave us gasping, desperately grasping for peace. That peace may seem to slip beyond our reach for a while, but time has a way of bringing it back around in season. And sometimes that thought is all that is left for us to hold onto.
The cruelest, yet sweetest, thing that time perpetually brings to the forefront of our minds, is that no matter what has happened, the world kept turning. No matter what is happening, the world is still turning. And that one day, something shocking and terrible will happen, long after we are all passed beyond the veil, and despite the horrendous nature of that event…the world will move on. The world will grip tight the hand of time and continue to carry on as it always has. And that is both comforting and sad, but that is the way of life. Cruel and sweet.