BlackMan Time

Time is like a plaster that covers up a gaping wound from which blood seeps and keeps on bleeding until it runs out of momentum or enough time has passed for it to burn itself out or run its full course.

Hurt is like a bruise that never heals completely although it promises to do so. Even if you apply a little time on it chances are your heart is somehow expecting hurt to come and so you live in a state of expectation for hurt to deliver it’s pain, right on cue, as promised.

Hope with its ever enthusiastic, bright up self, comes charging in brimming with nauseating optimism that never fails to connect with your positive mind, leaving sceptism in the gutter where it lives until some poor beggar fish it out starts wearing it proudly like a trophy he has won.

Love, ah, love. I save the best till last because love is the international language of everything. It connects us with all the things and people that matters. It’s a four letter word you can use safely in front of the children, yet in the wrong hands it can be disgustingly ugly.

Today is the international day of love or so they say. But love is eternal and not limited to any one particular time, era or century.

Didn’t I tell you it could get ugly?