It never did, of course. But my mind would always pose the question.
I’d envision cracks appearing on the surface, small pieces of cement and dust falling on my nose.
I’d imagine time stopping for a second, letting me see everything in excruciating detail — the lights reflecting off the ceiling, the panels of wood by the chandelier, the careful strokes of an artist adorning the canvas above my head — before making it all fall apart in a snap of its cruel, unforgiving fingers.
Most of the time, people would chalk it up to my tendency to drift off to my own little world.
“You’re so strange little one,” they’d say. “You have such an overactive imagination. Your brain keeps making you think of all these crazy, wild things.”
But I didn’t think it was crazy. And I didn’t think it was wild.
I thought everyone was concerned about a ceiling falling on their heads all the time.
I knew I was.
Because I thought, what would I do if it did?
Would I think quick enough to run? Would I find someplace to hide? Would I get injured somewhere in between?
Where would I go?
How would I escape?
All my life it’s always felt like that.
Like I’m waiting for the cracks to appear.
Like I’m waiting for the ceiling to swallow me whole.
Feet poised to run, eyes wide and alert.
Every day, I’d find myself looking up at the ceiling.
And every day,
I’d find myself wondering.