The Perils of Traversal

I’ve been on a trip. A trip down a flight of stairs, you must understand. It’s an unfortunate turn of events as I had plans to write a grand tale, a tale the likes of which had never been told before. But then the fall happened. Ideas tumbled from my head as I clonked my way to the ground floor, clinging to my typewriter for dear life. The inclusion of a typewriter however, is convenient, as now, crumpled at the bottom of a flight of stairs, I can log the current events. The absolute state of them.

There are some regrets to be found, failing to pay enough attention at the summit being chief among them. I was carrying a typewriter at the time, you see, because I’m a poet, a story teller of sorts. I need these tools with me, but sometimes hauling around a typewriter can lead to some very precarious scenarios. It’s comparable, I suppose, to a lumberjack and their chainsaw. Especially if the lumberjack left their chainsaw revving away, always ready for action. Typewriters must be ready for action, you never know when the thoughts might occur and need to be splashed upon a page. You could make that comparison into one of those things, if you like. A simile.

If at all possible, I’d recommend you avoid falling down the stairs. The process is fraught with danger. Not only the distance, which is likely to be travelled at pace, but each and every step can be considered a hazard, too. Though I weathered the journey quite well, I must say. I’ve established this could be due to one of two things. It’s entirely possible I’m indestructible, to me this seems like the most likely of the two options, and would be incredibly good news. The other option is the very small chance that I, quite possibly, got lucky. These questions are difficult to answer without replication of the event and I’m not willing to perform any additional experiments. Those are the facts, take them as you will.

Having established my body remains intact and fully functional I've made my way to the kitchen. I continue to slap out words on the trusty typewriter with one hand, so as to not miss a moment of action, and with the other I’m prepping a ham and cheese sandwich. I’ve noticed that some countries have exotic names for such concoctions, and fair play to them, it’s a combination deserving of one. They’re all pretty much the same, though. There’s only so much you can do with cheese and pig and bread.

You might find yourself wondering why I’m going for a sandwich, after such a perilous trip why aren’t I pushing the boat out? Well, I gave cooking a shot once. I followed the instructions to the letter, and, as a result, everything turned out perfectly. I simply didn’t enjoy the act. I must admit I can’t quite understand how people manage to get that stuff so wrong. Are they unaware of the concept of measurements and time and also temperature settings?

That’s a subject to ruminate on, so I shall give myself some time before delving deeper.

By the way, the stairs were carpeted. I thought it was worth mentioning as that sort of thing takes the edge off. It’s time for me to eat a sandwich and get back to writing poems.