It was the second body I had seen since moving into the city. Always when I'm so tired. Last time I merely saw the outline. A barely there silouhette of something once living. Then it was a run in with a commuter train. The man in too short khakis danced in strobes around the shrouded mass. My window was put forth squarely in front of the scene. Was it a mangle of flesh under there? I'd never know.
This morning, I knew. The photographer didn't take care to fully cover his glamour-less subject. Stage left, two mangled pieces of metal and the aftermath of a hailstorm of broken glass. Center stage, a writhing hand frozen in char reaches from beneath a too small sheet. I glimpsed a side profile of what was supposed to be a face.
This weekend I plead in earnest to end war. My cold body trembled as I held my protest sign high. A line of armed officers seperated me from the dozen or so people in "support of the war." Grown men screamed awful things at me. I was scared, yes, but not of them. It was their terrifying logic that made me feel scared and alone.
For sure I don't understand the gravity of what these scenes are doing to me. Maybe they are slowly breaking my heart. Perhaps they are "toughening" me up. All I can say is that I'm not afraid.
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