The unspoken words

The power of the pain

    She was walking on a road that had no end in sight. With her hands in her pockets, walking along the cold road and stepping on the snow that was crunching under her feet. The beginning was there, but the end was not. The kilometers seemed endless and distant, as if they could never be passed. As a running device, you take a thousand steps, you run, you think you are moving - and yet you are in the same place, unmoved like a pillar. And you wonder, where did those steps go? And how long did you run on that same machine?    

    Although it was not the first cold winter in her life, and probably not the last, she could never get used to the cold air and the sunshine every morning and every winter evening. Covering with the thickest scarf, the warmest hat and the best gloves never saved her from the cold, frostbite and the damn cold winter. The cold air reddened her cheeks and caused her chest pain. Pain from the cold air, the wind and everything that made up the winter. Only, that winter had no end. It was not one of those winters that start in December and end in March. It was a winter that started every year and never ended. Winter that does not pass, as well as those kilometers that just line up on the treadmill, and in fact were not passed. And as the winter was constant, so the pain caused by that winter lurked and smoldered in her body. Like an uninvited guest standing behind the door. You can not see him, but you know that he is there and that he is stalking you. The consequence of that winter was the constant companion holding her hand tightly. And she always wondered how to get that lump out of her chest. How to turn a ball made of cold snow into a puddle of water and melt it. And how can the frost finally rise from the ground and the spring snowdrops grow .... She seemed to be asking questions she did not know what to answer. She should never have asked questions to which she would not then have known what to do with the answer. Although she often did. There was no recipe that would help her get rid of it. Because it was not pain that came from a broken arm or a burned finger. So, she could not get rid of it by taking a pill that would reduce or remove it. She could only try to throw her out, weeping slowly until nothing was left inside. Until there is a void left in which there is no more pain or any other feeling. A place that would remain anesthetized forever. A place where total anesthesia is injected, so that she never feels anything again. A place that will remain resistant to any impact at all times.

     And what is left when that winter is finally over? Summer is not coming, but spring. Mild, gentle, but often with traces of a long cold winter. Traces stretching over early spring. Wounded, because it is still not warm enough for her to take off her thick scarf and gloves, without hoping that the same thing will not happen to her this time as every winter. Because apparently she never knew how to protect herself and learn to deal with the cold winters from which she always came out with severe consequences