Riding and falling and...what?

The things you think you know...oh how wrong you can be.

I thought I knew the bend. I thought I knew the way the ground curved, but apparently not.

I thought...but I calculated wrong, and now my hand is bloodysmeared and skingone.

So I fell.

I fell off my bike, when I was trying to balance. I fell, because thoughts in my head were confusing. And now I'm hurt, but it's covered.

Oh, sure.

But. I. Don't. Tell.

Falling is okay, as long as you remember to get back up.

It's when you lay there, on the ground, defeated.

Bloody and bruised, air gone, slices and sticks in your skin.

When you just don't care anymore, whether or not you get

back

up.

It's when...

when you don't cry. No tears, right?

When everything hurts so bad, and your chest burns,

and your legs hurt,

and your hand is completely numb,

and your skin is falling off and hanging loosely...

but you don't cry, 'cause the pain's not worth it.

And you don't get back up.

But ...

I got back up.

I stood up, stole some air, and shook it off.

And then I rode home, with my handle bars knocked outta place; my balance and control off.

But control is...control doesn't matter, as long as you've got some.

I'm lucky, because I didn't get hurt too bad.

But some people fall off the edge that merely tripped me; and they drown.