Winded

I was hiding. 

Spending inordinate time with logic and reason; the facts distilled as denial enforced defenses were banished, then lowered into what remained. The undeniable and unequivocal truth; I had been living that way for a very long time indeed; welcome to the consequence of invested endeavor:
Discovery.
  So, there I was, stalled by the absence of drama, the wind that filled my sails, wondering, now what?
  It’s interesting how driving along appointed rounds a myriad of conversations spring up in our heads to avoid the quiet; with loves and adversaries ~ living our days before they even dawn.  But when a great delusion is revealed, accompanying the jacked-jaw work, is the paralyzing disbelief of a reeling mind out of control; now what indeed.

  Ordinarily when a belief is challenged we'd quick draw resistance with blame, punishment, or guilt.  Then it’s just a question of heartbeats to find the target at which to point and then, unleash:  The situation or condition; our origins; the moon; Casper's toys on the carpet left to step on; finding which one squeaked.  It didn't matter.  And that seems to resonate to me as actual; a ripple like a cannon baller’s splashing fingerprint on what had been a still pond; it just didn't matter.
  I'm reminded of an incident when I was in fourth grade; I was reaching high to catch a kicked ball during mandatory-class-sports. Barry Emerson, failing courage to slide into second base, hunched over to squeeze safety onto the base.  In that effort he buried his head into my extended abdomen.  Whoosh! All the air in me sped out like a race to recess after a devastating spelling test.  I can easily conjure up my sprawled flopping-around- in- the- dust view of the baseball diamond. My fellow classmates gathered around, bending closely over me, staring, saying nothing, mesmerized at my antics, all framed by a cloudless early azure summer sky.  I can hear to this day Ms Carol's, my teacher, admonishing tone as she kept repeating,

   "Get up" "Get up."

  My only response was a fish- like gulping noise for air that wouldn't stay in, gills wouldn't let them. Why do people feel inclined to make you stand up when it’s quite obvious that you are unable to do anything but thrash in panic while lacking air?  I remember the anger and insult that I felt.  Not being allowed the dignity of dying with drama.  I mean really, how many kids get the opportunity to die on the play ground?  Don't hinder my golden moment!
  Alas, I was robbed of that glory in being lifted to my feet by those need-to-do something hands.  I vaguely remember what comforting words were said, you know the same ones you utter to those accident amputee's, or people whose life-blood becomes a fire hose gushing out of cut arteries. Words said to calm the injured but serve mostly the impotent witness.

    "You'll be fine," stuff like that. 

  But I do remember my head being buried in Ms. Carol’s ample chest.  I'd say that was when my love affair with breast began.  Having that moment to benchmark, and feeling somehow redeemed by her ability to cover me up from the noise and chaos; calmed me to breath. It was so swell, I knew with clarity that very moment I wanted to move there.  Now when life throws its challenges towards me, there is that near presence to consider, 'will this get me into the comfort of protective breast?' 

I wonder if most of men's complex problems are just the aching desire to get back to those moments of feeling secure in the mounts of flesh that some woman at a crucial time or another, offered as comfort for loosing wind; a healing haven of themselves. I should ask a sailor.... or maybe a pirate perhaps.