Exquisite pain

I just finished reading Exquisite pain, by Sophie Calle. It is a remarkable book. It blends photography, literature, and graphic design in unique and evocative way. All the distinct elements flow together in a symphonic sort of beauty and pain. It is a story of intense personal anguish and the mingling of other's stories to bring about recovery. The effects of the dissonant elements can be summed up in the appropriate title, Exquisite pain. Everything from the letter press cover, the odd book dimensions, the red, and the flow of pictures and text convey a sense of charm and appeal that is tinged with suffering, defeat, loss, and a strange sort of comfort throughout it all.

The book follows Calle's 92 day countdown to the end of a love affair and the three months following, sharing her story of suffering. Additionally, she accustomed to inquiring of others, "When did you suffer most?" Those accounts are coupled with Calle's throughout the days of her recovery.

Reading the various accounts incited in me a desire to write out my own story of exquisite pain. It is something I have written about before, on several different occasions, but once again I felt the need to write out my memories. Though I wouldn't mind to include what I wrote in the book, I still feel some hesitancy to include it on a blog so I have included a more ambiguous account that I wrote several years ago.

Wait
I wanted the stars to fall. I wanted the roads to burn. I wanted the night’s light to wax red. I wanted the world to wait.
But they didn’t, and they didn’t, and it didn’t, and it wouldn’t. The cars rolled by, the sun arose, the telephones rang, but you never got up.