Crossing the line.

  I had a close brush with death on the weekend that I didn't mention the other day (hence the absence of decent posts). It was a strange experience - I had only started worrying once it was all over. But never before had I felt so helpless, consumed in a blanket of darkness, when I struggled to speak to the authorities over the phone. The oncoming sounds of sirens were unbearable; people from vehicles could not peel their eyes away from the scene. I recall sitting on the border that traced the once flawless road, just staring straight ahead. Countless figures wandered around the area, speaking to each other as they yielded professional safety equipment. Some of them lingered and spoke to us, trying to see if we were okay. (I thought I was.) Oh, it was so cold. During the aftermath, I'd come to realise that it was all absolutely astonishing to me. I was in shock after I had fully digested what had happened, but surprisingly I didn't feel the least bit appalled.

  Oddly enough, this seems all too coincidental with my recent case of an existential crisis. I mean, I could've been gone in an instant. I could've been thrown straight off the edge. I could've been crushed under the weight/voltage of that street light. Yet, at the time, I failed to scream to the screeching of the tires; I failed to feel afraid as the pole toppled right over and the windscreen transformed into a web of glass.

  I'm still trying to come to terms with the ordeal, whilst feeling as lost as ever.

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