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Wounded Memories

Tag Archives: musings

Gently She Cried

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Memories, Musings, Poetry

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musings, Poetry, true story

Gently she cried
I never knew why
I just held her
Until her tears
Had dried

I never knew her name
She never knew mine
Our stories
Unknown to each other
But forever
Intertwined

This is an odd but true story. About 15 years ago I got on the metro riding home after working very late one evening.

The train was almost empty when I got on, but there was a woman sitting near the door with her head bowed down. I remember she was probably in her late 30’s, early 40’s, dark hair about shoulder length.

That was all I could tell because her head was bowed down. At first I thought she was sleeping, but after a stop or so, I noticed she was softly crying.

I don’t know why I did it, but I switched seats to sit next to her. She never looked up, I never saw her face. I leaned next to her and slid my arm around her shoulder.

In retrospect, I’m surprised she didn’t react violently… a giant 6’3 man in his mid twenties sitting down next to her putting his arm around her. We’re I in her shoes I think I might have.

But she didn’t. She leaned into me, head on my shoulder and cried.

I missed my stop, but knew I couldn’t move, so I just sat. For several stops she cried, but at some point she stopped. She still didn’t move, she just sat there. And so I sat there, not moving a muscle.

We never said a word until one of the stops she stood up, and muttered thank you without ever looking at me and she left the train. I didn’t respond. To this day I can’t remember why not. Whether I was stunned, afraid to break some spell, or simply lost in the moment, I still don’t know.

I could have gotten off, I still needed to switch trains to back tack, but I didn’t. I sat there almost stunned.

Some times I regret not speaking, not finding out more. But usually not. There is something almost spiritual about that event.

I still think about that night sometimes. Wondering what her story was. Wondering if she wonders what mine was.

It’s interesting how our lives intersect; sometimes violently, sometimes gently, almost imperceptibly.

The night’s paradox

23 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Dreams, Memories, Musings

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musings, Nightmares

Night is always a paradox for me. The day is filled with masks, I’m never me. The night is the only time I feel close, but not exactly, myself.

But the night is also when the nightmares come out. Demons and monsters from my past, my self included, terrorizing me. Flesh ripped from bone, and skulls crushed with stone.

I’ve had nightmares for as long as I can remember. Certainly I’ve had trauma in my life, terrible things no one should have to suffer, and they all play parts in my nightmares now, but my nightmares started even before then, when I was 3.

I’ve never told anyone exactly what those dreams were, and I expect I never will. To be honest, it would probably seem silly now, but to a 3 year old, it was terrifying.

Maybe I was wired wrong from the beginning. Who knows. Hell, if I go more than a week without them I feel… off. As if something is missing. They have become, no, they have always been a part of me.

Still, I hate them. I nightmare more nights than I don’t, and over the years have resisted sleep more and more. The only time I get to sleep peacefully is when I’m drunk, or when the sun is out, as if it were a Devine flashlight scaring the demons away.

So… The night. The only time I feel something close to the real me, but also the time that my demons get to feast on me. I sometimes wonder what happens when there is nothing left of me for them to devour.

The paradox of the night. My savior, my prison. My paradox.

We Never Become Un-broken Do We

03 Sunday Aug 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings

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Life, musings

A while back an injured bird was hanging out outside my window for a few weeks.

After about a week, when it could fly again (I saw it take a few short flights, up to a tree, back down), it didn’t leave. It just stayed there in that general area, never gone for more than an hour.

It was as of it forgot what life was like before it was broken.

I thought to myself how curiously similar this is to us humans, out at least some of us humans. Once we are broken, it feels like we are always broken.

I did say a few weeks didn’t I? The bird eventually died. Maybe the injuries were worse than I thought, and I just saw metaphors where there were none.

Either way I related with that bird and was sad when it died. Not that it died, that’s natural. But that it forgot how to live, and I wonder far too often if I haven’t forgotten as well.

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