a leg down, a leg up

It's 4:00am Friday, but it could be any day of the week. I am awake even though I am too tired for words. Something has shaken me, stirred me from my dreams. It's not a burglar, nor a call to work, it's my own leg-the remenance of an injury from years ago. My left calf quivers like its be touched by ice or kicked in a fight and my left angle feels like its in a vice. I first try to shake my legs to wish it away, but that only makes the sensation worse; all at once every muscle in my left leg tightens and becomes a massive Charles-horse. I rise up from my bed and hold my leg, then I punch it! I punch it again and again, which makes audible slap sounds in the silent night. The punches cause the muscles to loosen their grip for a moment. During this window of reprieve I get up and start my almost nightly ritual of pacing around the room to undo the tight mass of muscles. I follow the old theory of "walk it off". I start moving back and forth along the wooden floor. My walking first sounds like a pirate on a boat but with every step seems less peg legged and more two legged. With every turn I punch and poke my leg then back to a hobbling. Over and over again I turn and punch, the march. It is a painful and annoying process. Sometimes I bump into things as I pace, but I pay no mind, since I am focused on untangling the mess of tissue inside my leg.
After 30 minutes my leg is back to its regular state-a low hum of pain mixed with a degree of numbness.

In the dark silence I take seat. No one has heard the epic battle that I have just fought. I take deep breath and feel my heart race in my chest. Why am I like this...broken? do people notice that I sometimes walk funny? that I sometimes stubble? That I am not my former self? I never think these thoughts when I am actually walking, because I am thinking to much about walking in itself. I pretend that I am normal by forcing one foot in front of the other, watching and waiting for my left leg to act like a bastard. When I stop at a corner or when reaching a destination if no one seems to have notice the odd pace I have or strange gait, I consider it a victory. Some nights I don't have these victories.
Thinking to much...
The sun creeps in from outside and takes me away from my thoughts. A stream of sunlight runs out from the corners of the window, along the wooden floor, and illuminates my left leg. I can see the scars and dents from my accident clearly. I could stare at these bums and remember the bruises, but the sun keep moving. It goes up my lame leg, up my arm, onto my chest, and stops at my face. The heat of the light warms me, makes me strong, makes me...
I get up from my seat and the light slowly seems to follow me. It's morning now and I could go to sleep. Could dream of times before and just wish it all better. But I am not that way. I can't surrenders to what doctors say or to the parts of me will now always betray. There is a day out there. This morning I will bike and tomorrow I will hike a huge mountain. It'll be a struggle and it will hurt, but I am beyond normal, I always survive, and therefore I am invincible.

Continue Transmission

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