It seems that the story of my life is of me holding on. I love roller coasters, but I never hold my hands up while I ride them, I always hold on to the lap bar for dear life, illogically certain that if I let go I’ll go flying.
It’s not just roller coasters. I hold onto memories, by playing them over, by blogging, by taking pictures. I hold onto momentos, and childhood rag dolls, and ticket stubs. I hold onto certain people even after I should let them go. I cling for dear life, for fear of things flying out of my control.
But yesterday, yesterday, I didn’t hold on quite well enough. I was sitting on the El, and I was at the second to last stop before Frankford, and I was chatting on my beloved iPhone, oblivious to the world, clearly, and I think about it, and it still seems like a nightmare, a bad dream that didn’t actually happen. And then there are hands yanking my phone out of mine, and I try to yank back, but I didn’t hold on well enough, now did I? And I try to chase after, but I don’t know this area, and I lose my nerve, and I’m scared, and I just can’t believe this has happenend. I can’t believe I got mugged. I can’t believe I’m out two iPhones in four weeks, I can’t believe as I beg to use someone’s cell phone to call the cops, and as I wait in this neighborhood I don’t know very well, and as the cops question me, and drive me around, and as a night that I was looking forward to slipped out of my grasp. And as I cried later, and a friend desperately worked to cheer me, I held on, not wanting to let go.
But, sometimes no matter how much I try to hold on, things just fall apart. And I wonder why I should even bother to try.