They said that every writer has to get in touch with their darkest, and
also happiest, part of them in order to produce a good writing. I found
more fears in me than I anticipated, this time it's ample and louder,
which I couldn't tell whether it was a good thing or the opposite. My
right arm is hurting at the moment, because I tried to cycle with Marta's bike from my
house to university despite the strange fear whispering at the back of
my head that something would go wrong. I
know, cycling. Simple thing, but I never realised how scared I was
cycling in England, even though I have lived here for almost four years.
The idea of the street was still strange and unfamiliar that I thought,
this wasn't where I grew up, what about the cars, the pedal, the break, the saddle is too high. The first half of the way, I was alright
until I got to the road, where I did not realise that it was downhill,
and I tried to pull the break, too soon or too hard, I fell off the bike. It was a great fall, to be honest. I flew off the
bike, landed knees first and then my arms. I could feel the mild burnt, still
now, as soon as I got up. Luckily, my face did not hit the ground.
There was a guy that saw me at the end of the road and asked whether or
not I was okay, and all I could say with the rudest tone of voice, I'm fine,
out of embarrassement and shock. Then he left. You see, all of the
above are the result of me, trying to overcome that whispers, which
eventually happened regardless. Although, I'd like to think that's not
the point -- the point was I rode that bike; the point was I did go and
try. For a good half, I was alright, it was just unfortunate that the
voices were louder than my faith, or luck for that matter, that
eventually I fell anyway.
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