After a Fall

“Could you take me home, mate?” I asked a curious stranger who pulled up to the bus stop. I had waved at him and he was kind enough to stop and roll down his window. I was looking for a taxi, but there was none around. The phone was dead and I couldn’t simply call one over. He said: “Sure. Where do you live?” I told him and he opened the door. He was foreigner, I could tell from his accent, and we quickly changed language — the initial question had been posed in Finnish, but we spoke English after that. He pulled out of the bus stop and asked if I was alright. I said I had fallen and hurt my foot. Was I alright?

I remembered my Cioran: “To be lyrical from suffering means to achieve that inner purification in which wounds cease to be mere outer manifestations without deep complications and begin to participate in the essence of your being.” Had I began to participate in the essence of my being? Not really, it just hurt like hell. Later, two fractures would be found. The ankle took a hit and one my bones was now in three pieces. Where was the lyricism in this painful stupor if not close to a complete mental breakdown? Not wanting to alarm my new driver, I didn’t say anything, but tried to maintain smalltalk and uphold the private notion that I was now pure. Secretive saints have it easier.

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