How would children ever learn to walk if they were afraid to fall?

Randomness Extracted from 2007....

"How would children ever learn to walk if they were afraid to fall? A bearded man orchestrating jovial arms through a brown tweed jacket; coos at who I'm assuming to be his grandchild. Clutching the two-year-old inside the fluffy pink dress, blond curls topped with a bow, squeals in delight as her grandpa picked her up and swung her into the air, never letting her go. Unconsciously safe within her grandfather’s grasp, the child laughed freely into the sky. The two unaware, through the crowds outside of FAO Swartz , I'm sitting next to my crutches, and my eyes are watching them.

When in life do we begin to hold on? When do we start looking for railing by the staircases? Once we’ve balanced our choices on the assurance and stability of the ground, are we disabled from unfolding our arms and trying to fly? Are we constantly eyeballing underneath us, into our future in search for a net? Find some inflatable cushion to pad our fall, so gravity doesn’t throw us against the floor too hard, physical pain teases mental sanity, but it’s temporary, and easy to forgo. The mental stuff… that stays locked in our memory forever.

My laptop teeter-tots on my left leg as I pound my thoughts into Microsoft Word, the movements of the laptop shake and stir with the hesitation and hurry as each letter, like each pigment, creates a word, like pigments makeup a picture. The process of remembering feels similar to fingernails on a snare drum, a lone beat, penetrating silence, echoed with a rattlesnake voice that erects goose bumps. The single tap on the snare ignites sound, and although it fills the air with a single octave, the sound is empty of rhythm. Without the base, the cymbal, and the lyrics, the beat of the snare rips through time momentarily, only to remind us how alone a sound can feel. The single snap of a snare can shatter a daze, but it cannot rummage inside of our hearts without the help of another sound, the resonance of two hits you differently.

Sometimes silence is far more deafening than noise.

The vision of the child dissipates into the autumn foliage as I slowly crutch away from the crowded sidewalk. I'm invisible to the street venders and New York businessmen briskly scurrying through their day. Only aware of themselves, they are tending to the necessary tools of cell phones and watches, reminding those of importance to quicken their cadence against the New York Tar."