The Dip

It was during the opening credits of that movie from 1994 that I realized I lived a pedestrian life and that there was nothing wrong with going to and fro without causing a ripple. As long as I didn't cause a downfall.

The names of people I would never remember rolled in and out and I stared at the sight of her ugly hat, thinking all the while, "What was the point of dressing her in such a ridiculous boater. This wasn't the Victorian Age, but we were certainly exploring its resurgence here.

This girl was probably more similar to me that I cared to admit. She was walking in and out of the picture, across bridges and crosswalks she probably never fully explored. But she did a good job faking it. A con artist was always good at identifying a colleague and this was no exception.

She was a fraud, so full of wonder and the desire for attention, that once she had it--once she had all these cameras on her--she didn't even know what to do with it. There was a misconception of power and a profound underestimation of herself. And this came from worrying all too much about hences and whences and woulda shoulda couldas.

So much so that she didn't even notice that pothole--right there--right in front of her.

And I didn't notice she was gone until she was eclipsed it, swallowed whole by the site of a gaping cavity in the asphalt, making this all feel too familiar.

Too much like quicksand.