10/8/09;
When I was a child, this is the place where I would stand and stare below into the rushing waters of the ravine. Before it was remodeled, the bridge's railing was built in such a way that I could climb onto the top plank. I would stand with my arms outstretched and imagine I was floating above the earth, as if some kind of mythical being, as if levitating. As I got bigger, my feet became to long for my body and I began a habit of tripping over myself and falling, hurting my knees and elbows with unavoidable self-caused accidents. I did not climb onto the railing of the bridge anymore in fear I would crash into the waters and my body would be carried down stream; my neck quickly broken into a limp of lifelessness. This fear of mine was new, strange: your feet grow and all of a sudden you are afraid of dying.