Come to think, perhaps being nearly killed wasn’t always a misfortune—so long as you didn’t actually die of it.
Time is a lot of the things people say that God is.
There’s the always preexisting, and having no end. There’s the notion of being all powerful—because nothing can stand against time, can it? Not mountains, not armies.
And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return.
And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.
In war, government and their armies were a threat, but it was so often the neighbors who damned or saved you.
All I want is for you to love me. Not because of what I can do or what I look like, or because I love you—just because I am.