Monday morning comes, the firetrucks disperse from seventh street as the bulldozer continues to raze the rubble of what once was an unmoveable building. Nothing is forever. Even you.
The to do list looms, winds itself around your neck, your head filled with cotton, whispers its demands into the sorrow that is your muscle memory. Don't make a backup plan, comes a small voice deep inside you. Have nowhere to fall, nothing to catch you. It's been so many years of tearing down the structures that held you in place, you wonder if you at last have done it. At the base of your spine, little spires of curious greens begin to grow, little wondrous words and turns of phrase that turn amazed, when all is said and down and you've burned your unmoveable cage to rubble, is there not always a story left in the ashes? When you have nothing left, does the word not always manage to remain?
It occurs to me I've spent so much time looking for something I found long ago. Perhaps the cure you are looking for is against your own resistance.
If the abyss is deep
and dark
and impossible
You will leap.
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