Fickle Pain

Hi everyone, this was my first attempt to write something since my accident on 14 Feb it is a ramble of my thoughts soon after I gained contentiousness. I am stronger now, physically and mentally and writing again although I still can't do structured verse. The account is strange but true. I have enjoyed a Christian upbringing so the appearance of the four sangomas is at odds with my beliefs. At the time though, it seemed the most natural thing and did not feel strange at all. Hugs, Wally The past six months I have reached that point and gone beyond it - many times! Time and again I have wished for the pain to rise and cover over my miserable existence - forever. Pain is fickle though and did not comply, Cruelly, it let me live, whilst holding me in it’s unrelenting grasp - unable to move. Unable even to think, yet still aware . . . of a chiming waterfall, somewhere - whose monotonous music played on and on. The Maker never came, only the aged face of Michael came. He stared at me indifferently as I raged and pleaded for him to let me escape. The encrypted hands of a noble clock on the wall never moved but Michael said “Hush, it is the wee hours and others sleep.” All through the unending night – he remained, staring indifferently yet he would not undo my bonds. I raged more and tried to bargain for a knife to cut my bonds while the four hands of the cryptic clock on the wall didn’t move. And Michael said “Hush, it is the wee hours and others sleep.” So I planned to kill Michael - if only he would come close enough. I would kill him with my hatred. But he just stared at me still and would not come closer. Until at last I cried out to God; “Please! Please, end the pain!” “I give up, just let the pain end” The monotonous tune of the waterfall played on and on, and the Maker never came. Instead he sent his four disciples – and Michael washed me, brushed my teeth and wrapped me in a clean white sheet. Then he took me along a darkened stone corridor. On the right sat a counsel or four sanGomas, but the sanGomas were not of human or spirit form! The first, was a white bull, sunlit, kind eyed and sympathetic. The second, was a great baboon, a chief; wise and all seeing. He probed me with beady eyes and he saw my life. The third, a large black bird, perhaps a raven, indistinct in shadows, it gazed to the right, with an air of indifference. The forth and final sanGoma had no form. From total darkness it radiated an evil presence and I was afraid. After we had passed the counsel Michael said to me; “You have been judged! “They said you are UNWORTHY TO DIE! You must return” Then Michael went away and came to me no more. The encrypted face of the noble clock on the wall never changed but the chiming waterfall played on and on. Slowly, time has eroded the pain away until, now I can move - but still not walk. I can drink yet am not quenched. I eat but have no pleasure of food and my wounded thoughts flutter helplessly on the floor. The cryptic clock has gone and the chiming waterfall is silent. Yes, pain is fickle, the heart is wanting and the mind tries to put things in order - but is easily confused. Awoken to a body that’s broken, a shattered china doll – poorly repaired. Patched organs and bones screwed together, titanium rods, rigidly efficient - like the plastic tubes that keep me alive. The past is not what it once was. The future as indeterminate as my bonesmith’s prognosis and pain still clings to me like the sheets of my hospital bed. Consciousness is something to be feared. Dreaded sleep brings recurring nightmares, and the warming sun is my friend no more. Only questions remain of tomorrow.