Previous Entry Add to Memories Share Next Entry
A History of Violence
Sonic
mchale2020

  The course of several years had lead up to this moment of me standing in an unlit shed with old tools dangling from my torn pockets, and despite the subtle anticipation I've contained since this whole experience began, its essence caught me off guard. There sat my motorcycle, refurbished with new parts, gone were its aged scars from the passage of time. A dim light reached out from the shadows and in its projection illuminated small details that showed now the bike was 'right' once again. The grand sum of an aluminum frame and engine draped in bodywork, bolts, rivets, grommets and retainers rendered me dumbfounded. No longer did the machine serve only to remind me of old disappointments, it had transformed itself into a testament of rebirth and rejuvenation. A new muscle, bounded by experience and determination, cast away the complacent attitude that had been the norm for so long; in its strength, these fibers wound from the threads of my past forged a means to seek a resolution bigger than me at that very moment.

  Despite the victory that I had unearthed through bits of motorcycle kit, I was left with a question: How did I ever get here in the first place? Not just the repairs I mean, but what about the damages that had been set into motion in the first place. Was it the desires of a restless child to become a young man? To conquer some naive fog that clouded his vision in hopes of obtaining a fragment of clarity? And what was this child in the first place, perhaps his appearance only served to hide an inertia beneath his skin that would take him to exotic locations, tainted with violence and insecurities? To escape these locations with his safety still intact, what had been achieved? And at what cost? Was it the fact that all this time the spool of this subterranean inertia held the answers our newly forged young man sought all this time? To watch bloodied oppressors tumble to his quivering knees, is that what it took to know such a simple fact? And lastly, who said this story was even finished in the first place? 

A chapter closed then, seemed more appropriate. A spine full of blank pages now compose my unknowns from here on out; the spine has already been made stronger as its bound by the collection of previous chapters.


You are viewing mchale2020