Flicks of Sand

Fast sprinters, running up to the predetermined

wood block that signifies a great jump,

would enter the air with pride and

land with flicks of sand in the shoes, outside

the sand pit, and on me, the bystander

in witnessing a great leap forward.

I would get sand all over me. I would

stand there, record everyone’s numbers, which

all look like the values of them in

respective of mine. The outlier.

But let us consider a simple case: the sandpit, wooden block,

me, and a metre readily available on the side.

A sunny predisposition. The wind is for me. A good

twenty metres away from the wooden block is

my running block.

                                   I then thrust my arm

                        forwards, lift my leg into the thinned air, striding

             with confidence, and approach closer and closer to

the wooden jumping point. In the air

I see the clear sky, the edges of sandpit, the

warmth of that goal that would force me

to compel my fears. But now I see where

I am about to land. No! No, I can go further, and

             a little more push

                        could get me

                                   farther and farther away from my beginning

                                                and I —

                                                                  I refuse to land.