I always took the safer road,
the slow lane, the vacant seats.
Played Safe.
And then once, the safest
traveler takes a leap, not as much a leap of faith, as give in to wilderness,
the unshackling… a feeble and rare endeavor to experience proclivity.
One night I found myself, on
the edge of insanity, engulfed in murk, and on the side of a road completely
unknown. My vision blurred, (mostly because I’d lost my spectacles), and an
echo blared in my ears as if all my ancestors (dead and undead) chose that very
moment to knock some sense in to me by literally knocking on my eardrums; in
unison.
Yes, I had erred, faltered
monstrously (pun intended) and slipped.
Now, the difference between a
pusillanimous prude and an oblivious derelict is how he deals with the “slip”,
the etiquette of brushing off the dust from his body with a thousand pair of ostensibly
vigilant but actually amused eyes tracing all his moves.
While the indiscretions of a
recurrent errant train him to such performances; wherein his expertise enables
him to do the same with the kenspeckle of the star performer; rendering him an
“Artful Dodger”; the novice slipper feebly attempts to shroud himself in
diaphanous cloak of discomfiture. Every moment, with every movement the latter
remains agonizingly aware of the fall.
And so was I. New to the art
of dodging eyes; the flush of shame ripe and reflecting profusely. Palpitations
intensified. What have I done! Where could I have slowed down! And yet I knew
the palpitations were knocking and forcing open the doors. And then I did the
only thing I do under stress.
Sitting on the raw shingle,
dry grass tickling my sole, and prodding eyes feigning to sympathy; I wrote a
poem in my newly found state of exploit. Here it goes:
