Time has cast its subtle reflections across the lake of thought where memories play.
Once stark and bold, painful and brittle, time has left a layer of dust, softening the jagged edges of emotions.
Under its foggy illusion, love becomes fondness, hate a misunderstanding, and hope a distant sunset of a far horizon.
Time reaches out and embraces the wounded child. It wraps arms of comfort that muffle life's pain and seal life's treasures in a gift box to be recalled later when they can be touched without fear of breaking by a too-strong jolt of sensation.
Sonja Torres 1997