Bright pancakes smashed my eyes as the sun landed on my windshield. I told the truth at that moment, and either the world didn’t like me for this pitiful exercise or the world was thrilled by my surrender and was sending me away. Bubbles of froth gurgled up from the turtle who was in my passenger seat on top of my book of poems by Anne Sexton. The turtle was showing me how to do it: Just cry and let all of the air bubble up all the shit trapped in my heart for seemingly no reason, directly up the wind pipe and choke over it emphatically.
He told me to walk. He read about another guy who walked. One day it was ten steps and maybe the next it was fourteen. Today I could walk and just breathe. Just breathe. He told me to smile and tell him something. I smiled and laughed, but I couldn’t say anything. I looked at a dark window that would not show me a reflection of my body. I felt like a bowl of clam chowder, but I laughed again.
stillfugue 
#1 by carldagostino on May 3, 2011 - 4:24 am
“another guy that walked”
“another guy that walked” Was that 2,000 years ago? I find Him a source of vast empowerment. And healing.
#2 by Carl on May 3, 2011 - 9:47 pm
I am sure you are in good stead with that reliance.