The longest journey starts with just one step. Whoever said that probably wasn’t thinking of that step at the cellar head that I missed, sending me arse over tit into eternity. They were most likely imagining some sage-looking Asiatic with all his belongings tied in a neat bundle and slung over his broad shoulders, facing an empty, sinuous road with, in the distance, a range of misty blue mountains, swooping cranes and a new life beneath the boughs of a picturesque pine forest.
I wish I still had two legs beneath me, feet ready to walk the distance and a blue yonder beckoning, instead of this. This what? This falling? Shouldn’t it have stopped by now? By rights I should have bashed my brains out on the stone flags of the cellar floor minutes ago. Still the blackness flies past in rags and tatters. Not really black, more grey, with lighter patches and the soft touch of feathers. The feeling of falling changes to one of upward movement, of soaring, and the pitch black of the cellar is growing lighter, a misty blue. In the new light, I see the tattered, feathery darkness swooping past.
If you like the shorts, why not try the longs?