Pain That Lives in July
My mind is not here.
People are weird. The more I step back and look at the faces around me, the more I realize we are bodies with lost spirits. I see a face in my head as my eyes wander into the distance, and I place my feet in the pain of the woman being abused, him beating on the door trying to get in, and for what? To harm me. Even with tears in my eyes, the illness is his treat; his prize is to see me in pain.
People are evil, I know. As I watch the crowd move in the streets of New Orleans, I wonder which of the many faces is wearing an inviting and enticing smile, but the spirit is long gone. A body and bones are all that is left. What happened to the person they used to be? What is happening to me?
The question I asked hides in plain sight as their eyes see propaganda, and their actions have an agenda. They want a reaction to steal smiles—that's what's fulfilling, like the smell of coffee when the morning comes. That's their reward, their gold, their flesh roast, their nostalgia.
For me, it's the minutes that are ticking, the time I'm trading away from you. It's the hours away from you, just to be in the same room. We don't have to speak words for me to feel your comfort. That's my small win, to know love. To know that everything they place at my table, you are the main course. Everything else is secondary to my story.
I question all the time who put these roadblocks in my journey: the slow traffic, the person on the cellphone not paying attention. Does the world feed on my reaction? But I know this is my story, and life is life. Maybe this is why I love the cold morning in the mountains, alone with me and my eyes taking in the stillness. With time, and no one trying to convince me that life is life in their shoes.
Because I'm tired of walking, opening boxes that are empty after working so hard for them. The fool and the shiny toy used to be me, chasing things with meaning. But here on this mountain, nothing below has value. I see the real value of time: the chance to start over, to see what's important, to fix my eyes not on the slow traffic, not the person on the cell phone at the light needing two more seconds to just go. Not on the inconvenience of breaking down on the side of the road. Not the people trying their best to steal what joy I have left. Not on the propaganda of someone telling me how I should feel, not on someone painting a picture of the mountain and telling me how it feels.
Right now, as I stand here letting the wind go through my body, as I watch the air form, the wind blows life inside the fire. I let the smoke from the fire surround me as I picture my sister lying in the hospital room, her face still swollen from abuse. I ask the world and all its problems, you question me, bringing all of your roadblocks into my days. But they are not a reason to dwell on simple things when the sunset lays at your bedside and not mine.
For right now, in this moment, my heart knows the true feeling of pain, and my spirit desires the water of love. So no, you don't move me. My love is not here; it's inside the hospital, hoping that she stays strong. And even if I'm at work, broken down for the second time of the day, I cannot be mad when my mind is in the mountains.