The sun was shining sharply on my face and I could feel the blood vessels under my skin dilate to radiate the heat. I was not wearing sunblock. I thought my kind of skin wouldn’t tan just because it was mine and I generally had the notion in all things that I was invincible. I walked slowly up the road carrying my empty bag which I carried just for emotional support, to catch the straps of whenever I felt defensive. People sat thickly together on the pavement; a few eyes flitted to watch me pass, some stared.
As I walked I realized I was on autopilot. My mind was a big white spot, the kind you see on the flag of Japan. It was not really focusing on something. I could have taken a wrong turn and reached somewhere else and I would have wholly blamed it on my legs, as if my brain had gone for a vacation and made my legs the acting CEO.
I used to play with a small toy in my childhood where small round balls would be trapped inside a plastic cover and you would have to maneuver the balls by moving the toy and make the balls reach the center of the maze. You could never get all the balls inside together because the moment you shook the toy to maneuver the second one, the first one would come out. There was no hope, and yet you played because something inside you always yearned for the impossible.
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It's down-to-earth and I can relate to it.
