July 13, 2013 § 1 Comment
“They’ve only seen the show from the stalls.” – Balthazar Impresario – Frank Turner
I could feel it whittling away at my bones. Every movement of the blade. Every sharpened point. I still do feel it, it’s just a little less than it was now. That bone sharpness has lessened due to hope. Cold, bright hope that had me fumbling and spilling my cargo and searching for a shield from the brightness that light up the blood in my hand in front of my face. Like a kick to heart. A rush of blood to the everything. You jump and you squeal. Your blood is born again. I smile as I feel the heat of the sun on my face. And the hope, I’m not forgetting the hope.
I had been stumbling in the hopeless desert for too long. My horse had no name because I had no horse. It does though, it does feel good to be out of that dark, thundering, shuddering rain. I remember once back in the old country, a friend of mine who’d spent sometime as a lover had experienced real loss for the first time. It all spilled out of her. Words, tears, movements, all erratic, like she was leaking it all. It just came spilling out as the last of the sunset light her face on the tall hill were we thought fitting to sit and watch the sun set that faithful day in July. We had gone from bulletproof kids to old and limp and shot full of holes. She spoke as she thought. She thought as she cried. It came out all squeaking and high pitch and low pitch and snorting and with words broken with those heavy crying breaths like it was her final throw before a long period underwater. It came out apologetic. I watched her. I watched it raw and bleeding everything there was to bleed. Rolling out. Spilling down the hill. Thoughts. Hard thoughts flying at me. Questions that I wasn’t given time to answer. Questions that weren’t for me. Questions that, at this point, had to be asked even if there was no answer. I didn’t feel uncomfortable. I felt like I was witnessing something. Like this was the most honest that I had ever seen anyone be. This is what we aspire to be. A crying mess warmed, but not felt in the setting sun. She paused. It had been around forty minutes when she paused. I hadn’t said much, not that I could get any words in edge ways, not that any could help. But that’s what she wanted. She turned to me and through the madness, if the quiet, she said “So what Simon? What? No words? So many words from you all the time. Long words, short words, words that I don’t know what they fucking mean. Poetic words, blunt words. You, of all people must have something to offer me?”
I paused and looked at the setting sun disappearing over the horizon. The red hue had blotted the sky that deep sunset red. I turned to her and said ” When people watch a sunset, they aren’t thinking. They are just seeing. They are seeing watching this burning ball of fire sink into being blocked out by the distance. But they aren’t thinking what it really means. They watch it like it’s their last chance to see it. Like the sun is never, ever, ever going to come up again. But it is. The sun also rises. And just because one day you’re watching it fall and don’t think for a second about how you will see it again, that doesn’t mean that you won’t. It just means you were distracted by the sunset. You lost perspective. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that, tomorrow, that sun will come up again and you and I will still be here. We will still be here and we will still wear these faces. And this will still hurt. It will still hurt. But, even though our heads are full of this sunset, maybe after a few hundred laps of the sun and the horizon, that pain will get a little less. So tomorrow, you and I will come back here. We will watch that sun rise again and we will put a big marker cross on the date in our minds, the first of many laps of the sun on that horizon, and you’ll feel just a little less bad each time. That’s all we can do. All we can do is remember that the sun also rises.” She sat as that madness washed over her. She didn’t say a word till the sun had gone completely. For now at least, she had stopped leaking the words and the tears and the movement. She was still. Calm. Almost collected.
What I’m saying is, offer hope. Always offer hope.