It’s frustrating that the first thought to enter my head as I drove passed your limp body sprawled out in the middle of the highway was “What in the hell are you doing riding your bike in the middle of the highway?”
It’s frustrating that so many others were stopping but I didn’t want to get involved so I kept driving.
It’s frustrating that I assumed I couldn’t do anything anyway and that I’d simply get in the way.
It’s frustrating that this was and usually is my default position.
It’s frustrating that I don’t know if you’re okay. It’s frustrating that this letter is about me when I’m safe at home rocking on a porch swing with a drink in hand while you may not even see the sun rise tomorrow.
(Why does everything have to be about me?)