On Riding Bikes

There's a certain familiarity that resides in a box of Bicycle playing cards; the feeling of control in my hands; of expertise at the tips of my fingers. The way a strike-double hits the tip of my index triggers a shot to the memory, and lingers, as slight as an after-taste on the palate of the distant past.  I see flashes of where I've been light up at every turn in the winding streets of my age-old routines, so I run through them with my eyes closed just to remember what it feels like to have the ground beneath my feet. The technical coreography carves its way through the chaos, and memory lanes open. I ride through each one on my Bikes, and breathe freely. There's a bold sense of belonging with the cards in my hands. Whatever in hell is chasing me at the moment vanishes completely. I'm home once the card box opens, like a genie back in the lamp and free from all outside demands for the time being. The painters of ancient China used to block out the present, and re-visit the recluse huts in the mountains of their finished works, as an escape to the turbulence that comes from the speed at which the world spins. Time sits in the palm of my hands like a monk in lotus position, floating in the familiarity of mechanics grip and twisting at their own leisurely pace down the paths my age-old routines can take them. Familiarity is mine once again, whenever I want it back, in situations that shuffle me out of control and make me want to retreat into the cardboard box of my Bicycles. Often times, comfort zones reside in boxes like these, and I find fifty two familiar faces inside mine waiting for me, whom I've seen the same way time and again in times of uncertainty. I thumb through each one like meditation beads, to make sure they're all there, as the things that surround me fall apart and I loose control of everything else.