Writing

Tonight I stepped outside and pushed off my bike. The crisp fall air had turned burning cold with the dark and it bit at my fingers with the wind. I rode along, the streets so empty, feeling like the whole world was just a place I imagined. I felt like all the things I know to be real weren't real at all. Like the only thing that existed was the shadow I pulled along with me, following me. My breath came out as fog and I hit all the potholes in the dark–I guess they existed even when I couldn't see them. 

And now I'm inside and I know I've lost all the things I thought I had on that bike ride. My breath still seems to be fog and my fingers are burned, but that shadow isn't following anymore. 

October 2013

by Brittany Chavez