Story of a wounded man
At the newly dawning day a man approaches the cuspid of the shadowy valley he has come to know well with all its tresses and cascading rock terrain. He calls it valley of the wound. Like others who have entered this valley as he has, it has been an entrance unexpected and shakingly surreal. Like a roadway with many names, each given by both passerby’s and locals, this valley has come to bear many names. Valley of the broken heart, Valley of betrayal, Valley of Disappointment. Some who frequent its path call it the pass of discouragement.
Today this man may choose it’s exit wound, ripping through the bloody flesh of its territory. Like a soldier M.I.A., he must return to his path. Once captured by its deceiving path that winds seemingly with out end from ledge to levee and often to impassable barriers, now he stands with ability to see the narrow pass of exit. He stands with it in view, remembering his inheritance, his destiny that calls him onward and strengthens his step.
Now resides only the impression of where frames once hung on a sun-stained wall. Frames previously filled with those he loved and cherished in his heart. Family portraits of commonly bound hearts. Not that his heart has changed it’s pulse one skip towards any one of these displayed…
Even after his wound is long past postmortem, others now must begin dealing with their own injuries. Some sit calmly and allow someone to help. Others place something clean on the wound and apply pressure. And still others in their minds eye have rendered the “harm-causer” dead. Though not physically, certainly emotionally – Although life prior to the man’s injury included memories and vivatious life, they seen so distant now to those who observed the scene as it took place – He can not blame those who choose the last response, for he had been the inflicter and causation of pain.
So these frames, they were not removed with care and tucked away into a hidden place for safe keeping. But rather – it is as though one blinded by rage is opening his eyes to see shards of shattery glass and bits of splintery wood strown all about him. Glancing to his hand he sees one single frame unbroken, clinched in his hand. Still intact, with the exception of the nail pinned to the sun-drenched wall, holds tightly still to the grooved hanging apparatus, as if to say, “please, do not take from me everything“.
As he peers into the last remaining photo, he sees the largest of family portraits he posessed. This last portrait contained all of those who were once each individually displayed in their own hand crafted and ornate frame built by time.
He sees full well, all that has taken place, and weeps bitterly barring the weight of his face in his palms. As his sobbing nears control, he reaches to re-place the central photo back against the now empty wall…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to be continued