“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding…”
~ Khalil Gibran
Arjun first felt pain when he was fourteen years old. Before then, it wasn’t truly pain. Hunger. Bruises. Scrapes. Beatings. That was all the result of human weakness, the bleak brother of human courage. It was nothing to him. He ached with the sun when she stretched and rose and he ached with her as she slipped away, carrying her rays of hope with her. Physical pain was a dull and ever-present memory. True pain, he knew, was when something you couldn’t really see was taken away from you. Something that was as much a part of him as his calloused young hands that picked up crushed bottles and broken glass each day, his blistered feet that slid and slipped underneath the weight of the sack on his shoulders, his lungs that breathed in the decomposing walls of houses he was told was too good for him to live in. Continue reading
Your mid 40’s are a great time to wake up and realize you’ve wasted your life. You sit on the side of your bed and your feet dangle, its strange you could’ve sworn your big toes would meet the ground with that same pace as your slowly decomposing conscious, but they dont, and you catch a spark that flies through your brain. Continue reading
Oliver had been in the hospital for 15 days before his wife came to visit him. He had recently been struck by oncoming traffic and flew about 27 feet before he hit the ground and was instantly paralyzed from the waist down. She, his wife, had reason to be upset, but her straight face as she walked through ICU proved otherwise. She didn’t frown or make any gesture that would indicate unhappiness, her neutrality was in fact quite disconcerting. The pale walls, speckled by minuscule black dots surrounded her as she walked through the corridor toward Oliver. Meanwhile He was sprawled out in bed, blinking once for yes and twice for no, watching television, with the hum of the fan
overlapping the voices of all patients in the wing. The screaming, oh the screaming was horrific, and once or twice every four minutes a bleach white stretcher would pass by his room, being pushed with much haste towards emergency care. He would on look and ponder the idea of what had brought each person in, ‘maybe that one was a burn victim in a house fire on the west side.’, ‘maybe that one was struck by a car as well, possibly.’ Continue reading
He did not like waiting.
The sensation, interlaced with uncertainty drilled at his brain and made him shiver. He had been waiting at the airport for twelve hours already, half a day. Twelve hour segments had been ground underfoot and had slipped between the cracks below him. The pedestal on which he stood sagged underneath the added weight of both him and his emotional burdens – all self-inflicted sorrow.
“I have to take this,” he said, and answered the call as he walked into the bedroom. He shut the door, muffling his conversation. She listened for awhile, but unable to catch more than a few words here and there, turned back to her book.
The sun drifted lower and cast an orange glow on the room when she realized the conversation had stopped. She started for the bedroom but noticed a shadow on the balcony. She opened the door and stepped into the sunset. He sat on the porch swing but it wasn’t swaying, his head in his hands, his cellular phone next to his leg. She sat next to him and pulled his head out from between his knees to find his eyes wet.