Saturday, November 19, 2016
Hook, Line, and Sinker
You sit teetering for a while, wondering if the leap is worth it, if you will survive the fall. Fear keeps you frozen there at the tipping point. Grief too. The umbilical will bleed a bit when you cut it. No way around that. You know you can, somewhere down there in the recesses of the psyche, but you don't want to believe it. All that you know no longer helps, no longer applies, was true at the time, but now is more of a chain than a tool. As you take that first step, and the totter begins to tip, ready to dump you into space, you feel like you might die, or, worse, that you might live. Your only comfort is mystery. Mystery and a blank page waiting. Space. The thrill of nothing but that which you make up from here and now.