Story Break
Hanging On For Dear Life.
Be grateful.
S uddenly my eyes are open, wide. I don't know where I am. Could be anywhere. It's dark at first. No, blurry. Everything is blurry.
I can't move, but feel like I'm being moved, carried along. Things are flowing around me, and I'm being bounced. Bounced around, against my will. Something is definitely wrong here. What the hell?
I feel stretched. I feel stretched, tight. My skin is tight. Somehow. Tight, almost rigid. So tight my skin could just pop. I can wiggle some, but can't move more than that. That's it. Only a slight wiggle.
There! I can see. Suddenly. I can focus my eyes!
I recognize that thing. It's a tree. No, trees. Lots of trees. There are lots of trees here. But why are they moving away from me? How do they do that? No, wait, it's me. I'm moving. Backward, somehow. I'm moving backward. Bounce, bounce, bounce, I'm bouncing. I'm going backward and I'm strung up and can't move. I think I'm being carried.
Things are flowing around me and closing up again as I pass by. I'm going backward and I'm full. Stretched tight. I feel like I'm full of stuff.
Am I dreaming this?
I'm on a trail, in the forest. That's clear, finally. I can see it now. I'm watching the trail as it unwinds behind me. As I move along. No. As I am moved along. I can't do anything else but hang here and watch. Hang here. That's it. I'm strung up, stretched tight, and stuffed full. Now I get it.
I am a backpack.
I'm a bag, hung on a frame. I'm on someone's back. I'm hanging here and bouncing along the trail, backward. That's what I'm doing, and I can only watch. This is so strange, strange.
Most of my weight is hanging from the top, up where I'm connected to the frame. It's like hanging by my thumbs. But hanging solidly. Solidly connected. The frame seems to be some kind of tubing thing. Metallic. Rigid, I guess. Has to be. And I'm hanging from the top of it, and pinned on my sides too.
And at the bottom? At the bottom. I'm pinned there too. I can feel the strain. It hurts. The longer I go on the more it hurts. But I can't stop. I'm not in charge. I have no arms. No legs either. I have no arms or legs. No hands to untie myself, no feet to kick with.
I'm stuck.
I want to yell but I have no mouth. No mouth.
No, wait.
I have a mouth. I do have a mouth. But it's up there, where the top of my head should be. And it's tied shut. Laced shut. The laces hurt. They are tight. I can't help it. I'm strung up and the only thing I can do is wait. Hang here and wait. And hope to get through the day. The whole day!
The whole day?
I can hope to stay in one piece. I think I'm strong enough. I am strong enough. I'm sure of that. I'm sure. Of that, at least.
I'm sure because I have a good design. I'm made well. I'm overbuilt. Somehow I know this. But I can't move. I just want to get through the day. Maybe then I can relax, once they loosen all the straps. Whoever they are. Empty me out. Let me lie down for a while. Maybe things will get better then. Maybe someone will explain this. I hope so.
Meanwhile I'm hanging here. I'm going to try hanging here. Hanging on. Staying in one piece. I have to. That's what packs do. And I am a damn fine pack. I am. I will do this. All day. And tomorrow too, and forever. Even if it hurts. Because that's who I am and that's what I do.
On the other hand, you could say that what makes backpacks work is that they don't know any better. Because they are only great big empty spaces you can shove things into. Conveniently.
Conveniently, they don't have muscles, or bones, or teeth, so they pretty well have to go along with you. Whatever you want to do. Hey, realistically speaking very few packs are even conscious, and then only once in a while. But they still work, and work well.
Be grateful.