I like to think that when we walk, we are in a constant state of falling.
Think about it: We take a step, we are falling. We take another step, we are falling. The only thing that stops us from falling forward is the ability to walk.
I fall all the time. My feet don’t do what I want them to, no matter how desperate I am for them to walk properly. They trip me up, they trip themselves.
I feel sometimes that my feet are playing tricks on me, that they want to see me trip and fall, that Cybill Paulsen is waiting somewhere nearby in the bushes and he has strung an invisible string across my path.
He sits with glee in the shadows, waiting for it to cut into my feet and ankles, to draw blood from my fall like a sacrifice.
Decorating the pavement like rain drops.