She knows she has become a blur, a passenger in the window of an express train. Her friends and family have become only glimpses, impressions of people standing on platforms, waving at her as she tears through life.
They’ve started making safety announcements:
Will customers at Mum’s for Lunch please stand clear of the edge. Through train approaching.
The train now approaching Caitlin’s 30th does not stop here. Please stand back.
Stand well away from the edge of Ian and Samantha’s Wedding. The approaching train is not scheduled to stop at this station.
‘Slow down!’ her mother has cried as she’s hurtled by.
‘Can’t,’ she’s called back, the word fading before it’s fully left her mouth. ‘Gotta keep going.’
‘But you’ll crash!’
‘I’ll be fine.’
She knows she has become a blur, but that’s okay; it’s what she wants – because maybe when she finally hits the end of the line, she’ll be so stretched, so thin, so vaporous she won’t feel a thing.
A flash-fiction inspired by The Day Looks Dull by Stephen Cherry (Barefoot Prayers: A Meditation a Day for Lent and Easter)
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