The time is rushing. Rushing irreverently, like the cars I’m watching on the icy road. I could have slipped when I walked outside; before I did, I had already winced as I imagined the wind knocked from me, shock widening my features, my tush landing with a definite thump, slipping, sliding, bruising. I’d have probably grazed my fingers as I tried to grasp at the stone wall, or hit them flat out on a straight edge. Then I wouldn’t know whether to attempt to shake the pain from my fingers, lick the blood from their tips, or rub hard at my sore butt. But I’m certain my eyes would dart from side to side first. Were there any witnesses? Would there be a need to feign a breezy indifference to the pain? Ah, there is no one. It is dark. I can linger as I drag myself up. I can curse softly. I can dust the snow and sludge from my clothes. My embarrassment is private, soon I will forget it. But then you know…What if?
What if the embarrassment is not private? What if I have skidded on that icy patch and a merry crowd has followed me with their eyes? Can I stand their cruelty, their mocking laughs? Can I stand their pity, their disdain?
I cannot. My imagined pain pales when faced with the throbbing reality.
I trust that my metaphors are not lost on you. I have retrieved my posts and moved them here.
I owed you that.