Sometimes when you are falling it is like you are flying. For a very brief moment. Until you hit the ground. Usually you have no time to enjoy the feeling that you may be flying due to the hitting the ground panic. It all happens so quickly.

When you are falling you react instinctively. Your hands go out to try to prevent your face or head from slamming into the pavement. This is great for your head and your face but not so great for your hands. They generally end up bruised and scraped.

The next part of your body that hits the ground is a crap shoot. Last time it was knees. This time it was the left thigh of all things. Quad muscle acting in a brake-like fashion. Skin against pavement almost always assists in facilitating stoppage of the forward motion.

And once you are done falling. You almost immediately get up. Like nothing. You wonder if anyone has seen. You see how much you are bleeding. You determine if anything seems broken. You walk a bit to see if it is possible to keep running.

And then you run away. Like nothing happened. You are dirty and bruised. You are sore and embarrassed. You wonder if there is a reason for the falling. Did you trip on something? Did your feet just get tangled up? Did you just will it to happen?

In the end it doesn’t matter. Falling is falling. Much later, the injuries always seem less worse than they did in the harsh light of day. As you examine them, you consider that you have left behind a bit of yourself. DNA, skin scraped onto the sidewalk. Ripe for the taking from those wishing to cast spells or create clones. Luckily no such witnesses exist to know where to look to take advantage of genetic shenanigans.

And already wounds are healing. Soon it will be like it never happened. Maybe next time, the flying part can be acknowledged, experienced, wondered over. Although, that does not seem likely. The best to hope for is that there is no next time and if there is a next time, the extent of the injury consists of a bruised ego.

About nematomorph

Living like the rich and famous, splitting time between Hawaii and New York.
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