Halfway up the stairs lives a little man. He sits there and giggles. I'm not sure if he's really sitting: he might be floating or being present or being spread out across the walls and the ceiling. I'm not exactely sure how that works with little men like him. But he lives on the stairs and he hurts you. And then giggles about it. With shiny little eyes.
When you walk up the stairs, he gives you a little push to make you bump your head into the low ceiling. When you walk down the stairs, he makes you slip on your socks so you bounce down a couple of steps on your heels. And when you are really careful walking up and down the stairs because you won't be had, he makes sure you scratch your own face while talking or stab yourself in the eye with something you're carrying.
He does those things because he thinks you take yourself too seriously. Because you work so hard and try to make life as pleasant as possible for yourself and others. Because you worry about the environment, great suffering and the energy system of all things in general. He also considers those things very important but he also knows you have to take a step back once in a while. Or maybe he thinks there's another perspective inside of you that needs to be shaken loose. That's when he hurts you and then laughs about it.
And when you look around, outraged, you see him sitting on the stairs, chuckling. With gleaming little eyes. It distracts you from the greater scheme of things for a while and brings you firmly back into your body. And then you can continue. Upstairs, where the moon shines through the window, or downstairs, where the dishwasher purrs.
You rub the sore spot, shake your head, feel the pain and laugh at yourself. As you walk on, you also laugh at the little man on the stairs.
And then you kick his behind.