Isn't it funny how the burbling and roiling of an unwell body causes my mind to pry open the dusty book on the bottom shelf called, "dreams I was too scared to fulfill". The book feels heavy, thick with pages built by apathy and too many moments of not feeling safe.
How easy it is today to feel sorry for myself. To feel unloved. To feel alone. I find the taste of bananas almost unpleasant. I read and I wait. I stare off the edge of the couch at my cat who blinks and yawns and turns away.
I move to the chair, dragging the dusty book with me. More burbling, more roiling. Tears of self pity squeeze themselves past my lower lids. Something is moving outside the house and I turn my head to the window. A bicycle. The pedals turn fast and the wheels turn slow. An older man in a helmet and tan shorts braces against the effort of my curving, inclined street.
What(?), I say to myself, and lean into the window. I blink past the tears, focus on the revolving pedals. They are being pumped by shocking white sneakers and caramel-colored plastic, the plastic of not one, but two prosthetic legs. The man in the tan shorts seems steady, determined as he rounds the curve beyond my sight.
I lift open the window. I tear out the pages of the thick, dusty book, the pages of dreams unfulfilled. I release them all to the wind and watch them tumble up the street in the bicycle's wake. I decide to like the taste of bananas.