Every step I walk down the road conjures up visions of disaster in my head. What if the next is a misstep, I fall, break my skull and lie dead in the street? I cannot seem to shake the cloud of doom that is my umbrella.
On my way back I hurry to cross the street while the green man gleams, I stumble and barely escape my nightmare.
The next morning in the shower: what if I slip? How long until they will know? How long until someone misses me?
What if there’s a red-numbered digital clock counting down my days? Without me ever knowing about it. What if tomorrow is my last day and I haven’t made anything of this life? Is someone watching, who knows how soon I’ll end, and cringing at every second I waste?
Posthumously published works garner attention. Would my friends bother to send in my manuscripts?
The cold turns around and leaves us, soon rain will take its place. And for a while the cement hurts so much it turns white releasing the friend it held on to so long.
In bright sunshine I walk with bars of soap strapped to my soles upon an icy slope downhill. When my heel lifts, I can feel myself slipping, sometimes more, sometimes less. There is no safe footing anymore, the ground has betrayed me, but I lack wings to fly.
"The mountain's side was shining wild colors of my destiny."