Feel It All – Part 1


I know from the particular song playing that it’s something significant.  The emotion, that is.  It just clicks.  It’s a classical piece . . . well, a classical chill-out piece; more or less the same thing, just with some slow techno thrown in.  I’m simply thinking about a girl.  Different from thinking about the cute girl working behind the counter down the bottle-o, who always seems to cheer-up a little when I enter.  That type of thought comes from the brain, or perhaps the ‘downstairs brain’.  But this, this is infinitely different.  It seems to come from the heart, and I don’t really give a shit how corny that sounds.  And, anyway, I don’t literally mean it comes from the heart.  That’d be insane.  It seems to come from the heart, because mine starts thumping just that little bit harder, like it’s nodding in approval or happiness or something, but I digress.  The music goes with the thought like glasses of red go with winter nights.  And it isn’t deliberate, like I’m thinking, ‘I’m a lame-o who’s thinking about this girl and needs some music to suit the mood’.  No.  My housemate randomly put it on.  Such a cool guy, but he doesn’t have an inkling of what was running through my head.  So I just sit there with the music, and the thought, and the emotion, and the glass of red—‘tis a bit chilly—and say to my heart, as it nods away, ‘Yeah, little buddy, this is pretty fucking awesome right here, hey?’

 

I must’ve gone numb, but I knew I was in serious pain, like I was watching myself on TV and thinking ‘Jeez, that must be fucking painful’.  But I certainly wasn’t watching this shit on TV.  No fucking way.  The trailer on the back of that ute HAD swung out and hit my car as it went past.  I HAD lost control and white-knuckled the steering-wheel as the car began to spin faster than a coke bottle at an early-teen’s party.  The death-trap-on-wheels HAD ploughed into a telephone pole, while doing one hundred and ten kilometre-an-hour spins.  That was when the ‘stand-by’ button on the TV was pressed, and darkness ensued.  I regained consciousness to the sound of faint-dripping.  Probably the petrol.  Not good, but I couldn’t do much about it at that stage ‘cause, though numb, I knew there was something seriously wrong with my right leg and arm.  Wrong, as in I couldn’t move ‘em, seeing as though they were assuming one slice-of-bread, with the telephone pole, in a car-door sandwich.  Weird that there were no noises other than the dripping.  Not even the obligatory call of a crow that you expect from time-to-time in these rural areas.  Like I was alone in my own, detached world-of-pain.  It was stupid—hey, you’ll have to forgive me ‘cause I’d just been in a near-fatal accident—but I actually started to rationalise the situation.  Why did the wind have to blow the trailer into my lane JUST as I was passing?  Why couldn’t I have just spun off the road and into a field, instead of into a pole?  Why, oh why, did this have to happen after passing the one bastard in the whole fucking world, who doesn’t check his rear-view-mirror to watch disappear into the distance, the first FUCKING car he’d seen in about one-thousand k’s?  Just bad luck I guess.  Obviously worse than blowing a hundred on a roulette table, but bad luck nonetheless.  Oh right, the pain, it had begun to take over from the numbness.  I wasn’t sure if I was dying, though there was a lot of blood everywhere.  How much bleeding does death require?  I had no idea.  People have flash-backs before they die, don’t they?  Besides checking if the radio still worked, with the arm I could still feel, not much else I could’ve done. . . .

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