Saturday, April 07, 2007

Pain Cuts

By Lindsay Kirsch

The movies have it right. These things don’t happen on sunny days. The birds aren’t chirping and the leaves of the trees aren’t shimmering in the sun. These things don’t happen on days when the world is beautiful. The world is ugly, and so are the words. The tears streaming down the faces of the wounded victims, the innocent victims, match the cold rain falling from the clouds. The world is steely gray, and so are the words. The insides are gray, wet, and bloody.

The pain is monotonous. It has become so accustomed to its spot inside the insides that one has to stop to make sure it is still there, to make sure that it hasn’t fled during the night. But when one looks outside and sees the rain, and hears the words, one knows that the pain is still there. It will always be there.

Everyone is in their positions. The four innocent victims sit in their places. The youngest male is on his bike, ready to pedal anywhere that he can go to get away from the gray, harping pain. Regardless of how hard he pedals, though, he doesn’t go anywhere. He’s yet to learn that the pain doesn’t leave. Even if he finds his way out, the knot will be there when the wheels stop turning. The middle one holds the most deeply wounded, stroking her, hoping that her touch will ease the pain. She’s yet to learn that there is nothing that takes away from the throbbing of the heart, begging for something to put it back in place, unsure why it was rocked like this in the first place. The oldest holds the voice of reason, saying the words that no one else can mutter.

And the last one finds some words, just as gray, and shaky: “I just want this to be over.” It is over. We have heard the thunder coming from the mouths of the mourning, and we have seen the lightning strike from the eyes of the wounded. It is over.

And it is over on a rainy day. It wouldn’t have ended if the sun had come out. When the sun is out, the world can’t end. The lives of those pedaling, stroking, reasoning and shaking will not end on a sunny day. Just leave it to Mother Nature to set the right backdrop. The actors are dropped into their positions and they hear “ACTION!” and they accommodate the audience. They will play to the rain, they play out the pain because they know that they will never hear “CUT!”

They will be told they can stop but in reality they will always feel cut. The pain cuts, the words cut, the gray cuts, the rain cuts, the emotions are cut. Cut and dry. Life will go on but the pain won’t leave, or at least, it will never be forgotten. And they are only learning now that the rain is the backdrop, always, to the most painful movies of their lives.

Writer Lindsay Kirsch is a junior at the University at Albany, State University of New York. Her major is Latin and Caribbean Studies, and she has a double minor, in Spanish and English.

1 comment:

Clai Sommers said...

and in some sort of continuation Lindsay.................

The boy on the bike peddled around the corner only to be thrown back from the blast. He felt his body strike the air and rise upwards to the sky, turn and fall into the sharp corners of cement everywhere. It lay in huge rubbles.

The journalist across the street was running toward the boy, and the girl clicking pictures. He was a rare one this journalist. He had been held hostage in this country was released and had gotten himself back in to the horror of his family. It was the only way. He clicked pictures, held dying pedestrians, and his interpreter could get help for only one of the people on the street that day.

Movies called it "shock and awe", the president called it "shock and"
Michael could no longer remember what it was he called it. There are no words from simple writers or complex dictionaries to describe the times of troubles. He only had pictures smuggled out everyday.

There is only the praying to our gods or goddesses or sunlight and trees in one quiet moment for all the ripped hearts, ripped nations, and ripped landscapes. Michael stood holding the boy and knew that only by holding on to the grace of a second of a life could he click away honestly for others to see.

Others would not be there for the years of pain and individual shock and awe. He looked upward, closed his eyes and ran for some safety for the boy in his arms, the camera now bouncing from his neck strap, and himself.

If he seperated himself from this he knew he would loose all honesty, he knew his life would be lost to the terrors.

Thanks for the prompt Lindsay.
A simple writer without a complex