Spectator


Sitting on my couch, covered by a fitted sheet to keep the dog hair off of the nicely upholstered Thrift Store purchase, I can watch a woman break with pain and I can be a spectator. 

On my couch, on the Purple Egyptian Cotton sheet, I can watch body language, I can listen to breathing patterns, I can watch eyes dilate, I can hear a voice box quiver, I can see water rising behind the dam. I can be a spectator. 

On my couch, on layers of shed dog hairs and leftover pieces of raw hide from days ago, I have the choice to be a participant. I have the choice to say something, to do something, to be someone. I have the choice to take action, or… to be a spectator. 

I’m no classical heroin who rescues the slain from the dragons lair or some king who rides out first with his army behind him. No I’m the strategist who allows his enemy to strike first and while preparing for strike two is destroyed by a well-excuted strike one. 

 

There was no action taken on that couch. 

 

 

But that pain lit me on fire. 

Pain wakes my soul from the absent and ignorant slumber it’s been indulging in for far too long. 

There’s nothing like pain to tell you something has got to give. 

There’s no position like mine to have this responsibility and this opportunity. 

 

 

There’s only one thing… now that my eyes have been opened, what should they be seeing? 

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