It is the usual meadow.
We regularly visit it: the recreational tea field, located at somewhere uphill, two-hours driving distance from odorless capital city where we live.

It is a ritual: we arrived, we ran toward the stable, we chose our own horses, and then we left for the restaurant nearby to grab a cup of lemon tea. Or two. Before we rode our horses.

I wore a cap that day.
A jacket? I think it’s grey. Some shorts and indistinct pair of shoes.

I ride my horse. We went for the usual turn, usual route.
The meadow, the creek, the trees. Every turn I’ve known very well.
Then the guardian asked me,

“Do you mind speeding up?”

Bring it on, I said.

The guardian then smacked the horse’s buttock and it ran faster.
I was thrilled.
And faster.
I was ecstatic.
And faster.
“Wohooo!” I could hear myself saying.
And faster.
Okay, that’s enough.
And faster.
The cap fell from my head. My hair slapped me on the cheek.
And faster.
The corner of my eyes felt wet.
And faster.
Somethings clutched my chest.
And faster.
It was fear.
And faster.
I wish someone would save me.
And faster.
So I screamed.
And faster.
But I’m on my own.
I’ve always been.

I ended up being saved by my dad. That was 10 years ago.
And now, I can’t keep asking people to fight my battle.

This is me, riding a horse.
Speeding up to the point it starts to pain me, out of fear.
But, uh
what do I fear for?
I can’t stop. I can’t make it stop.
So why should I care of what’s ahead.
I may very well close my eyes right now.
Feel the wind on my skin.

Que sera sera.


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