Words Unspoken

Static. Black, White, Gray. Horizontal and vertical lines, but never read in-between them. Translation was lost over a thousand minds, and we had gone crazy long ago. Only a voice, a word held us together now, and tonight, he would speak, the man elected to rule the world. Static, but only for a few more moments.

The blinds were drawn. It was night outside, and nobody wanted to see the fires burn. Maybe with a soft-spoken call, nothing would ignite, or if harsh and curt, there would be no peace tonight. There would be no peace, and we would all be at the crossroads of civil war, opening the door for enemies to attack. No, the fires were there, shining as brilliant as stars, but it was better to dream of constellations, a perfect world.

But we are far beyond perfection. We want the leaders seen on television, actors made character. We want Blair Underwood of The Event or Dennis Haysbert of 24, or we would even take Bill Pullman of Independence Day. We needed someone. Like the great George Carlin said, garbage in, garbage out, and our stockpile of politicians was seriously depleted. Was this the best we had, or were there no more leaders among men?

I saw him now. The static was gone. He tapped the mike twice, and we were listening. He cleared his throat, prepared to speak, and then he grabbed a small, clear glass of water. He wetted his lips, and his hand trembled. And my stomach turned.

There have been so many great speeches over the centuries, great men that have spoken these words. We would never forget them, and we needed them now. War had ripped this world apart, and the heroes were supposed to rise. Poverty broke the backs of dozens, and no words could ignite the spark of inspiration, determination to take back what was lost. We were doomed, and lies ran over truth. The blame game reigned with pointed fingers, and it was the same old speel. Would he tell us different? It didn't look promising.

"My people," he began, but then he fell silent. He looked like an old man ready to fall over. His deep, blue eyes were of the sun sinking in the vast deep. His fingers tapped the mike again. Testing, testing, and we were still here. "My people," he mumbled, lost for words, words he had not written or even known.

I prayed for the static to return. I could feel the heat from the fires. My back was broken, and my hands were bleeding. I was trying to hold on not jump over the edge, but the future now looked grim. He was our leader, and the world belonged to him. But how could he be in the driver's seat, if not sure what to even say? And the spark lit, not of inspiration, but of fury. There were no great men left, no great speeches, and all the leaders we dream of are left to television. But I was here, holding on, still holding on to the words that he would never say.