ab initio, ad infinitum

pavement.

WELCOME TO THE ANGST-FEST. Seriously though, only angsty-teens are allowed. ;) So in case it has not been made clear, this one is A n g s t y  with a capital A, and quite honestly I don't even know? Past Garggie was likely going through some shit and anger during the writing of this so please be kind to her and excuse the mess. XD Also, Happy Turkey Day! do good, be kind. <3

P A V E M E N T .

The ground is slick, slick pavement, slippery with no place for footholds. It's unforgiving and unsuspecting, until you slip and fall and find yourself unable to get up.

It's finding out one day that you're late, then running to catch the next train because you missed your usual one, but having your feet catch on the black ice and having your feet thrown out from under you. It's having the wind of your lungs getting knocked out of you and scraping your palms, your head gazing up at the sky above you and recounting the things you have to do, that you should do, but you can't move. You're paralyzed on that slick, slick pavement, wondering when your body will listen to you next.

The ground is simply a messenger of news, not a carrier of evil; it's simply reaping what you sow. You worked yourself past exhaustion, past the point that your legs could recognize fatigue and use, and now, you're paying the price. Now, your body won't move, because all of you is so spent, and if you move, you might actually just die.

No one can say that the slick, slick pavement doesn't have a flair for dramatics.

The slick, slick pavement if made of the most hellish stones found on Earth, it seems, the one that are best designed for bloodying up your hands after ripping micro-cuts into your skin. The stones that never seem to look wet or slippery, but always are, as you are so often reminded as you lay on your back, waiting for your body to listen to you.

Your muscles are tired, and they thank the slick, slick pavement, though you don't want them to. You are so aware of the seconds, ticking and ticking and ticking, the things that you could have been doing, things that you should be doing, but instead, you lay on that slick, slick pavement. And while you lay there, you thank the ground while cursing it, because it's the best worst thing that has happened to you.

It would be better if you knew how to stand up off of the slick, slick pavement though, because once you've fallen, there's seemingly no way to stand up again. You just lay there, hearing the seconds tick and tick and tick and feel your muscles scream their relief, and see the warning flashing lights your brain sets off in your vision because THEREISSOMUCHTODOANDYOUAREN'TDOINGANYTHINGGETUPGETUPGETUP, but you lay there.

The slick, slick pavement is not a messenger of God or the servant of Satan, rather than the slave to its own sort of painful black hole and it sucks you down with it.

But people don't seem to notice when the ground beneath your feet becomes slick, slick pavement, nor do they realize you're stuck on the ground and that you're screaming, albeit quietly, so they walk all over you, and you're left there on the ground. Your bloodied palms and footprints on your body and sore limbs and pounding head and that slick, slick pavement.

...