Oh my sweet fairy, the past is strong

Before the rain cascaded from the sky in king-size sheets today, I tinkered. Toolbox by my side, various sockets and tufts of steel wool in my hands, so many turns of the ratchet, loosening or tightening of the fasteners under the hood, and bit by rusted bit, this princess charming prepared her carriage for its journey to the great white north, to the castles and princes sequestered therein. Droplets spattering across the glint of exposed metal serve to remind me that the hour is fast approaching for those looming clouds to loose their burden; it is a countdown not unlike the one inside my head, marking the minutes until I depart on my not-so-virgin voyage. The difference? Inclement weather is preceded by a drop in pressure — in the hours before my own impending release, however, I can feel it rising, mounting, climbing. I envision one body scaling another, a knight in corroded armor clambering up the rough-hewn stone blocks of a tower to reach the damsel in distress, and not in that order. All the more, it would appear, order in this life is utterly lacking. Whether owed to these wanderings of the mind, or a hurried attempt to beat the storm, I pull a bit too hard against a stubborn bolt. As it lets go suddenly and without warning, the unforgiving edge of protruding plastic behind my arm teaches me a lesson in patience, its syllabus written in blood scripting its way down my elbow. I should really know by now: you just cannot force things.