I was a nebula once, or so was told,
The brightest spot in heavens arc,
And traveling the ether, eons by, did stop to tarry here.
No rhyme or reason there (just a holiday of sorts),
Where random bits do stop and park,
And warp and woof of jeweled orb become, for the briefest moment.
Now I can but wave farewell and fly,
As there is a nebula I am to be, and mighty distances to ply.
Say not goodbye, for we are one host,  infinitesimal, and infinite in our relations.
No station, caste, or class for us — we are naught but what there is,
And equal is as equal gets when bits is all there is.
Look to the sky when I am gone — you can still see me there…
It’s the bright spot just overhead, just before the dawning,
Or so I am told……

Suddenly, for no apparent reason and against all odds, my foot decided it was pulling out, seceding as it were, from the body politic.

It comes as a shock. An evil unto itself like Iago. Unfounded. Purposeless. And therefor all the more devastating. What is one to do? Declare war? Conciliate? Accommodate?

In the meantime life goes on, and one is flagged as a cripple. People now look at you differently; you simply can’t keep up, and the implications soak the very ground upon which you drag your protesting extremity.

Life is not over, but life HAS changed, and I am not convinced it has changed for the better, nor that I am entitled to some kind of deference just because I can’t keep up. I am broken and it doesn’t really matter why or how.

It is a rather cold slap in the face when you realize you are beholden, when whatever curtains have shrouded this face from you are parted and the depth of the illusion sinks in. My liberty is just another hackneyed vaudeville joke, and I am just another horse waiting for just another knacker.