Slipping Away

I love letting myself fall; a fall from slipping.

What-a-ya-slippen on you wonder? I’m slipping on ice, cold hard winter ice. Holding my whiskey flask in my right hand and my dignity on the left, all under a weekend moon in the quite of the late night. I think slipping on a sheet of ice, and then falling down, hard, is a lot better, than trying not to hit the ground from your slipping. That dance you do, to stay on your feet, looks so undignified and silly next to just simply falling down, and then just standing up again.Yes, in a heartbeat you’re on the ground with out the dance, yes, this is much better, not to fight the fated fall.

Sometimes one can get away with out falling on the cold hard ice, but at what price? Your dignity? Your self-respect? To proud to admit you walked into a mistake? A cold slippery mistake? O’ that dance; that silly-silly dance of not landing on the cold hard ice; your warm breath smokes in the cold air as your arms flail about struggling to keep standing on your feet, to proud to take the fall, or maybe just scared? So really, what did you get away with? I can’t do it.

I cannot do the dance on a sheet of cold hard ice. Not me, no racing heart or struggle to prevent the fall, I’ll just fall. Then ill laugh, then I will get back on my feet and take another shot from my whiskey flask, and look were I’m going next time, if any.