Mercy

 We’re taught that pain is reaction to a stimulus: a thorn’s prick, a cutting comment from the favorite cousin or the eradication of a memory. Physically, bundles of nerves shriek out in unison over damaged dermis, a bleeding vein or in some cases, fractured vanity.

 

It doesn’t explain the phantom bruise. It doesn’t dictate fragmentation of the human mind nor the aching of a soul that’s clearly missing a piece. There’s no way to gauge which wound will fester, which door will open the least mesmerizing horror. Which thread will pull the metaphorical quilt apart to become less than it was.

 

Pain is about loss. Mental, physical, spiritual. The machinations of the mind to correct an imbalance. The swaying of the human psyche. What is and what isn’t and what will never be. The glow of nostalgia versus the gray it ultimately was. Was that comment meant in jest? Did that really happen? Maybe it was all imagination. Perhaps, that sneer wasn’t meant for me. Perhaps, it was my fault.

 

Scrape enough and the surface that’s beneath it all is revealed. Shells, walls, hell, even clothing are designed to protect; to shield. At what point does the protection need protecting? Who watches the watchers? Who heals the healers? Who polices the policemen?

 

We’re taught that crying is weakness; that the cracking of a spirit needs time to heal. That this too, shall pass. This is tantamount to just waiting for it to be over. Waiting for the torment to stop. Waiting.

 

Waiting for mercy.

 

Pain that scratches the surface will never heal correctly.