Always they show the bedraggled hero continue to fight, long past logic, though the odds of success are so small. She may sound her war whoop and run toward danger, or she may have a twinkle in her eye as her fingers fly, decoding the seemingly un-decodable. Her spirit is undaunted.
“No!” I will shout, looking about for something to thump. “That’s not how it is!”
They won’t show her turning away, overshadowed by fear and reeking of doubt. Falling to her knees then listing impossibly slowly until she is on her side, motionless. She lies pinned to the curb like another forgotten specimen stabbed through the thorax.
This is the show I never see. Maybe they can’t make that show. Maybe we cannot watch it.
“…And no one talks about when one might stop and need to rest
Or how long you sit alone before you stop looking back
It’s like you’re waiting for Godot
And then you pick your sorry ass up off the street and go . . .
And what the hell is this? Who made this bloody mess?
And someone always answers like a martyr
Is it something you should know, did you never do your best
Would you be saved if you were brave and just tried harder?”
–If I Were Brave, by Shawn Colvin