Phineas Gage

Walking over the crunch of sun dried leaves and twigs, there is no delineation between my swinging arms and legs. My clothing is light and hangs well. The fit is so soft that I barely recall putting them on. My breathing is casual and my thoughts do not extend past my field of vision. Everything with in earshot is a rolled carpet of woodland noises. Were a bird to perch on me, I would not understand it to be a marvel. I am stitched masterfully into the up and down; diffused equally from east to west. I am a ripped page from the book of revelation having six wings full of eyes within. A zero vantage point is dipped into a ceaseless welcome. This moment has scattered my name and duty onto glowing embers of pleasure. The highways of everything crisscross my person without harm.

Then, without a warning I feel a summoning that pops me out of the soup sentience. It wants me to know I am a wave singled out of the ocean. It calls from a spirit of duel. I count no man my enemy, but this is no man. There is a low rumble of anticipation. I am without arms. No dagger, no coat of mail, not a stone to hurl. Yet an inborn readiness is flagged deep within my bowels to protect myself. Something is running from behind me. When I turn, it's pace does not slow, nor is it made manifest. Half turns are not any better. My entire body feels as if It were a pair shoulder blades and a spinal column. The opponent has hidden forward from me. No gladiator would consent to a blindfold. With a burning sensation I am lanced in my left eyes right through the back of my head. Whatever this thing is, cowardly as it may be, my swift defeat has put it in the grace of unknown queen. Perhaps I will be buried with honors for a contest that felt more like an ambush.