By BrandeE Laird 

      It may as well be late Friday night, for all the life drifting on the sidewalks. I'm just off of work and gathering that feeling--an electric need to jump, and swing--so I'm striding toward a corridor to move. Each footstep is a tiny landing, core temperature warming, and my mind runs through the patterns I know, preparing to execute them, and go further. 

      I arrive at the scaffolding--tucked safe into shadow, shards of streetlight breaking through--but too many are soundly sleeping beneath it to use. Five or six bodies cocooned atop cardboard, blanket-caped faces shielded from chill; I can hardly disturb them with training my will. Persistent clinking clacks of fitted metal pieces; dully creaking columns; the dry-concrete scuffs of dropping down...It's not just my town, after all, so I go. 

      But, I know I didn't wake up seriously sore today; it didn't hurt to put on my clothes, walk up the stairs, or sit down. I wasn't surprised by the quick pains of small movements, of simple stretches made stiff endeavors, so, back to the street to search.

      Scanning the near park seeking somewhere to play, a man vigorously sings to himself in passing. I decide on one railing--why is it right there if not for training? Four feet high, splitting one side of bare ground from another, I wonder at the purpose causing its placement, (decide it doesn't matter--it's just another obstacle statement,) so I drop my bag to stay.

      Between balances, I fall. Spin back atop, and down. Spin atop, down. Vault--stop, stay atop, walk. Walk backwards, walk sideways. Turn around.

      Crouch down, turn around, stand, walk around. Crouch-walk-stand, crouch, turn around. Turn around, and again, ease back down to the ground. Vault over, back it up, spin atop, ease down.

      I am not embarrassed about where I began. Spin up, turn around, ease back down. There are no threats to my character--vault, stop, stay atop, walk--or my spirit--crouch, walk, turn around, ease down--as I am teaching myself to be better. Vault, stop, say atop, walk. Crouch-turn-walk-stand-crouch down. Balance--this is the only option--turn around, ease down--and I'm perfectly locked-in to being free...

    --A large light takes my vision--white, blinding--and a cheerful voice calls out, "Park's closed!"  With no hesitation, I bag-up, move on, the being of that freedom--for the moment--gone, but I'm fine with leaving because leaving doesn't mean that I'm walking away from being me.