1500 paces and counting, my journey today.
Can I make it to the end?
250 in, and my ankles crack.
600 more, and my right knee dislocates.
Both hips are gone at 1100.
And I collapse a pile of bones in repose.
So, there I rested, and I thought. Reflection requires time and deep space, a void to think.
And I thought about how much and how often I thought about myself. And I chased that self-absorbed rabbit around a familiar meadow for a bit, fawns and squirrels obscured, and then I thought about a passing butterfly and wished I could flit and dip and visit a flower or a blade of grass—to be that light and carefree, to balance on a blade of grass. Should I try and risk the tumble?
Then I thought about the others, who rarely entered my thoughts, and the thunderheads tolled. Thinking I should escape the impending storm, I gathered up my terrified bones and teeth and hightailed it home.
Perhaps I am a rabbit, I think, my ears trembling. A bit of a coward, always scampering, a servant to no one, to nothing other than my butterfly desires. Fluttering from me to me upon winged and suspicious deliberation—cautious of them, their steel traps, and their pesky nets.
How thoughtless they are to not understand the calamity if I allow capture.