Whenever it rained, I walked funny. I wore my rubber boots with pride. I liked to play in the ditch behind our farm where I caught tadpoles in spring. But when it rained, I clenched my toes inside my boots, in case a worm would accidentally find its way into my shoe. The logic of a child. My grandma let me walk funny, she knew I would grow out of it.
…
As if all muscles were immersed in acid. Like the moment when you step into the void on a staircase in the dark, like a fall into the depths, only inside. Like tiredness that soaks the air. Like “Run!”, but you don’t know where to go, there’s nothing you could or want to run to, and besides, you’re too weak for that. Like a deep moan between the hectic breaths, like a need to sit down now that doesn’t stop, even if you’ve been sitting down for a long time.