With an impact as strong as an inbound BART train and as improbable as lightning. 

I was not wronged. I was warned. I was told clearly and concisely. I was given the choice to stay or to go. Then again, the choice to go never mattered, or even fully existed, once you were involved. Once you were what I could choose to stay with or to go away from.. I had no choice. 

Even then, that’s still on me. My desires, my inability to keep said desires pinned to the confines of my skin and tucked beneath my bones; my fault. My general incompetence and lack of knowledge on how to keep my feelings and thoughts muted; my fault. My too-eager attitude and overall ineptness; my fault, my fault, my fault.

So, what-the-fuck now. I leave myself with options (because I lack control over most goings-on currently pervading my life and laying options out for myself is one of the only things I still have complete control over):

a) So the BART conductor didn’t see you standing on the tracks and you happened to be positioned in that one-in-a-million spot on Earth where lighting feels like gracing, and now you’re crippled. The emotional and mental stress of the blow more prominent, more aggravating, than the work done on your body. Cool. Fabulous. It happened. It stopped happening. So get the fuck up and learn how to walk again. Learn how to do everything you used to know and do and legitimately love before the train hit, before the lighting struck, before your life changed by that one moment.

and

b) It happened. It’s still happening. It will keep happening. That one moment, that one person, that one everything poisons your mind and travels to every crevice of your body, inflicting more damage than the train or lightning. The train and lightning are less painful and far less remarkable. The poison of that one moment, that one person, that one everything will drive you to replay the train’s impact, the lightning’s vigor over and over and over until your imagination becomes tangible, and the train is coming so fast you forget how to move, you forget your name… but you never forget theirs - dear God, no - never theirs. So you lay there crippled; no recollection of you, but every recollection of Her. And the recollection of Her stings more than the train, burns brighter than the lightning.

Fortunately for me, I have never had a good imagination. I’m not creative nor experienced enough in such interactions with people to know such pain. I’m only vaguely aware of the idea of pain. Vaguely aware, but hardly attuned, to the silent numbness that immediately follows the idea of pain. To the mistaking of feelings for another, to the mistaking of non-feelings for feelings, to the constant replacing of non-feelings with things to serve as and evoke feelings.

But I don’t know pain. Not yet.

This presents itself as a promising beginning, however.

And I begin with my choice.