Time is strange while the fist or belt is flying. Shifting and sliding, it becomes a stretchy slippery swinging rope bridge.
Directly before and after are razor-sharp and painful.
Reality gets stretched so tight that the distinctive twang of the breaking point is almost audible as a convulsive spinal shiver sends seismic echoes into the room and a lodestone of fearful dread and impotent anger solidifies in my chest.
A flurry of unending fireworks and spinning, flying time...
dissolves with a precipitous drop into grating, jaw-snapping reality.
Then, no longer taut, but pulpy and bruised, time crawls, sluggish with pain and the craven focus on survival.
Bleeding, sniffling, and all too human, the shocked angry silence is tempered by internal screaming.
Twitchy with fear, an internal canonic listing of faults and missteps begins in an attempt to find the one that led me to this place,
I am surprised and in awe of people that can tell you in a moment how many years it’s been since an event.
This is a skill or trick I never learned.
I lost a few years as a child and never learned the art of pinning time onto an unwavering calendar.