Trade-offs

The memories are still present, the way a burn still has that fresh stinging feeling days later, though subdued. But the images are disconnected; persistently vivid even with the missing fury of emotional attachment that originally forced the paint to dry. It’s a TV show on mute.

Moments shared, looks placed, time wiled, and opportunities both taken and missed all churn together as nothing more than unplugged thoughts. Aren’t there sayings about memories and how they are precious, or all we have, or what we have to hold onto? I’m not so sure about all that—without the suffering that presided when those memories were newly minted, it all feels a little bit hollow. I feel a little bit hollow.

Who are we—am I—without that turmoil and its incessant ability to bubble to the surface and boil over at the worst of moments, as if we—I—were no more than a pot on the stove?

It is a queer thought that through this reflection I find myself longing for that soulful ache that once existed; the direct reminder that, despite the then-present despair, I was alive and longing, searching, feeling.  But time has a way, through its careful linear plodding, of messing with things like this and that emotion is now no more than a snuffed candle: thin wisps of smoke trailing into the black, unseen.

That candle though—if that candle were reignited, the flame would return with all its searing and burning and crackling. And as a flame is wont to do, it would also begin, once again, to suck the oxygen out of the room.

But… The room would once again have light.

Trade-offs.

Subtitles

It's a foreign film...


          Characters move about the screen, some with wild mannerisms and others more
demurely. The dialogue that spills from the actors' lips is unintelligible to you, though despite the language barrier a general idea of the goings-on is within your grasp; based solely on the settings, body language, facial expressions, and interactions that play before your eyes.

          But what if you restarted the film with the subtitles on and found that everything you had assumed of the plot was entirely incorrect?

What if life had subtitles?

          Not just any language subtitles, but a scrolling caption that ceaselessly allowed you to see truly what another has wrapped around their heart, irrespective of their outward visage. Something like a tell-all postscript that pulled back the curtain and revealed the real Oz within us each. Would our assumptions hold true?

What if the drug addict on the downtown street corner, with all his sneering at passersby actually wore an invisible coat of shame for the knowledge that he was drowning in this world of disrepute, unable to reach the surface and escape his nightmare?

What if the pretty blonde 20-something at the gym, constantly striking a pose for either mirror or self-directed camera, actually held within thoughts of herself that would make the strongest of us weep for the cruelty she directed inwardly?

What if the homeless man resting on the park bench turned out to be truly happy, having let go of his ties to the materialism of the world and was perfectly content with the memories of years of love gathered from a past life, and his sleeping bag?

What if the alpha-male officer, after a stern-faced and air-of-confidence shift, spent his long evenings in a heap on the floor gently rocking his aging and ill dog--his best friend--to sleep while the tears dripped from his chin and puddled on his duty shirt?

You see, if we were all open books--and not just open, but large-font on poster-sized pages--I wonder if we would treat people differently; I wonder if there would be more compassion in the world; I wonder if there would be less violence; I wonder if it would create bonds between people.

I wonder...

What if life had subtitles?