Hurt

by Gordon Purkis

The past comes rushing back fiercely and it’s wrong, all wrong. It’s too hard, too hard, impossible. Too hard and impossible. To get away, to be gone, gone away from it, as it rushes back, fiercely, and it’s wrong, too hard, impossible. I hurt.

I’m stuck in the middle of life, in the middle of my life and I’m stuck; it’s boring; the afternoons are gray and boring. I need some excitement or I’m just going to...

I’d like to start over. I’d like to start my life over like a new stanza, forget about her face, this face and that face. Try love again with a fresh start, a fresh face, a fresh heart.

* * *

All play and no work and I can’t do a damn thing. The phone doesn’t ring, it sits there in silence, in defiance of its creator’s intended purpose for it: to be, much like I — I am supposed to be happy, joyous and free but even the paint on the walls is hurt hurt hurt. No matter how many bright green layers we put on it, it is not happy, like I am supposed to be.

* * *

Note to self: describe the feelings you’re having maybe that will help, perhaps you can look at it from a safe distance rather than so close to your own heart — which is what makes it hurt — that and knowing you cannot change what has happened although you’d give anything to be able to — to undo the loss — and the losing parts.

* * *

Why is the world sad, for whom does it cry? Why O why does it seem to tear its gut out? Never mind, that’s me.

I don’t want to dream about yesterday, of girls in their glass houses and their cheesy mustaches sitting on the john.

If all it took was action — sometimes there is no energy for motion but for some reason when the muscles move the head clears.

And, finally, nothing is more glorious to behold than a sunset on the cusp of spring; it makes night’s demons disappear, makes them cover up their overstated genitalia.

Above all else, remember, nothing good ever happens after midnight or before dawn.

* * *

Let me remind you: sometimes it hurts. But it’s not so impossible to believe when you’re staring up at a blue heaven, not too difficult to believe in God or history or the history of the belief in God.

I’ve been hurt but I’ve been hurt before. I’ve hurt others and I still hurt others. I’m tired of it — this cycle needs to end. I feel like God can protect me from this, but I must remember that there isn’t much that matters, to pause before I push the button and so doing I can fend off hurt, not avoid it completely, but I can lessen it by remembering what matters most and that is life and those who you love, and who love you, those little furry creatures that always look at you with approval — to them you are God and God, if you’re listening, I want to be your animal and love you like you love me.

* * *

Thunderstorm. A thunderstorm gets it done. It’s a flash of action. It doesn’t take long to die — it lives quicker than a butterfly — it goes — it doesn’t take long to die nor linger on half/dead this way, like this: neither sick nor healthy, damned or saved, loved or hated, drunk or sober.

My only complaint, my only desire, my only world is love, love on a park bench on a Ferris wheel on the Fourth of July kissing, hot kissing, kissing away and fireworks and being young, young and not yet hurt, not ready to be hurt, beyond hurt, the way it feels to get the girl, to get her and have her for a time and to remember it like it was long ago even though it wasn’t.

But you’re still young, you can still kiss on the Ferris wheel if you wish on this or any other Fourth of July you happen to have. You’re not dead or taking long to die, neither sick nor damned nor filled with desire or hate, just love — love that shrugs its shoulders and says losing isn’t so bad, you sold everything you had to sell and were taught everything you learned by the hurt, the hurt of it’s over, over, going home, after a long day trampling over peanut shells, dodging paper cups and beer bottles, hurt but somehow happy.