April 20, 2024


2 min read

Dear Hope,

Good evening, you tricksy sonuvabitch.

I have known you for most of my life.  Still even now, I find myself questioning your motives.

There are times when you’ve picked me up and carried me over the proverbial “hump,”  but there too, are times when you’ve picked me up only to suddenly let go while standing just over the crest of that hump.

9.8 m/s^2.  That’s how fast my body accelerates as gravity pulls it towards the ground.  A 5-foot fall doesn’t sound too painful, but it really is, especially because of the hump.  It takes the force that would have normally been spread across my entire body and focuses it on a smaller area, namely my T4 vertebrae.  Crack.  My back’s broken.  If this were the comic books, I’d be alright.  All I’d need would be a good respite in my fortress of solitude/lazarus pit/batcave/x-mansion/canadian wilderness.  In the meantime, my friend Azrael would take over all my worldy duties.

I however, have no arctic fortress nor a group of superhuman chums.

It’s just me, Hope.  It’s just me, lying on top of the hump with my extremities splayed out and my spine bent at an awkward angle.  I’m crying out in pain.

The worst part isn’t the physical pain really, it’s the pain that comes from that safe feeling I had while you cradled me in your arms.  That feeling that suddenly disappeared and was replaced by that weird stomach-contents-hitting-my-fundus feeling you get when you ride Superman.

We’re not done,

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