Hurtling Through the Void

  Miss Margo: I wrote this a long time ago.


 Pressing against the glass, I am aware that only a few transparent inches of substance keeps me from falling out into the air and then hurtling down seventy flights to the pavement.   My body, I think, would make a sound like a dropped carton of eggs, only louder.



    Two inches between me and the void.  The space does not seem real; my depth perception and sense of scale is unreliable.


     My life is very, very strange.  Fantastical, really.


     I pull myself away from the glass and clothe my body.  My underwear, my stockings, my dress.  I apply pink lipstick and brush the dark gold hair.  I am a whirring engine, passing through the veil–different lives, different roles.  You only get to see a piece of me.


2 thoughts on “Hurtling Through the Void”

  1. Hmmm…now that I look at it, my metaphor is a little odd. Probably wouldn’t scratch in a creative writing class. I do tend to think of myself in mechanistic terms, however. My analyst finds it troubling.

    I wish I was made of metal. Life would be easier.

    I like heights but hate airplane rides. Too much of a control freak, I guess. I start to fantasize about errant geese, engine fires, etc. Hurtling through the air at 450 mph in an aluminum tube…no thanks.

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