Attacked!

Chicago. Under no rational circumstances should I have been addressed as Mr. Wright. Sweat caked body, unintentional bed-head. The housing agent was unreasonably courteous to someone who barely classified as an adult.

Walking to my apartment, sole suitcase in tow, I pass teenage kids. Misplacing traffic warning signs.

Fate, it seems, can only garb itself in obvious semiology.

Certain memories are recalled from the first person. Others, bizarrely, from the third. This one can only be recalled by a muscle memory response to the left. Muscle memory in response to the blow.

Philosophically the brain believes in the separation between mind and body. A physical antagonism to the head comes with a certain sense of disbelief, skepticism. Thus I keep walking. My body unaware of the shame that weighs my consciousness.

Why shame? Do I feel responsible for not crossing the street or turning around and defending myself?

Or do I feel ashamed of humanity? A world assaulted midday by strangers. Who ran off.

Or the shame for living a sheltered life free of disaster?

Chicago. Under no rational circumstances should I have been addressed as Mr. Wright. Bruised. Battered. The porter was unreasonably courteous to someone who barely classified as an adult.