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A distracted bump
The anger was palpable, and if feeling it was synonym to power, I would be capable of anything at that moment.
"I'm sorry, are you okay?" The old man asked, after picking up his glasses from the floor.
What? I thought, and probably showed the same surprise on my face. "Are you okay?" I asked, more embarrassed than concerned.
I bumped into the old man, and he excused?
"I'm okay, I should have noticed you coming so quick," the old man said with a smile, his glasses now settled. He looked serene, unconcerned, like a patient teacher of unruly kids.
I didn't answer. Up to that moment I had been deep in mind chaos, fladgelling myself with conditions I create with no foundations. There I was, like in any day, self-absorbed, so much that I knocked an old man to the ground; even if with no intentions, the consequences of my illusions materialized in a bump with another living being.
"Won't you be late?" The old man asked, still staring at me.
"Not anymore," I said, which was true. My appointment had been a no-show. I had a free morning now. "I'm sorry. I was distracted."
"Not a problem, see?" He showed his range of motion by stretching his arms and expressing no pain. "Just be careful crossing the street," the old man said and left.
I left too.
Sometimes I wonder if I should train to silence my mind, but, then, I'm a writer, and the skill works best when creativity is around. It's a risky trade because we offer parts of ourselves to the eyes of those who just see characters.
The characters are us, compartmentalized into personalities that roam around creating a flow of words.
When unchecked, the talent I proclaim to be my purpose, can also be a detriment. My exercise is to beam the confusions and unending questioning to living characters that are either in an ongoing story, or being built to be.
Thx
© LD Nascimento
"I'm sorry, are you okay?" The old man asked, after picking up his glasses from the floor.
What? I thought, and probably showed the same surprise on my face. "Are you okay?" I asked, more embarrassed than concerned.
I bumped into the old man, and he excused?
"I'm okay, I should have noticed you coming so quick," the old man said with a smile, his glasses now settled. He looked serene, unconcerned, like a patient teacher of unruly kids.
I didn't answer. Up to that moment I had been deep in mind chaos, fladgelling myself with conditions I create with no foundations. There I was, like in any day, self-absorbed, so much that I knocked an old man to the ground; even if with no intentions, the consequences of my illusions materialized in a bump with another living being.
"Won't you be late?" The old man asked, still staring at me.
"Not anymore," I said, which was true. My appointment had been a no-show. I had a free morning now. "I'm sorry. I was distracted."
"Not a problem, see?" He showed his range of motion by stretching his arms and expressing no pain. "Just be careful crossing the street," the old man said and left.
I left too.
Sometimes I wonder if I should train to silence my mind, but, then, I'm a writer, and the skill works best when creativity is around. It's a risky trade because we offer parts of ourselves to the eyes of those who just see characters.
The characters are us, compartmentalized into personalities that roam around creating a flow of words.
When unchecked, the talent I proclaim to be my purpose, can also be a detriment. My exercise is to beam the confusions and unending questioning to living characters that are either in an ongoing story, or being built to be.
Thx
© LD Nascimento
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