I can feel myself perched precariously on the edge of a cliff. I’m facing north, carefully balancing on the arches of my soles. The rocks under my feet, rugged, sharp protrusions formed out of the lost wilderness into now towering beasts.
The wind beats at my back. I lean into it. The cool throbbing breeze comes in waves, whipping around me in a whirlwind. Shadows form across the ridges and behind the sparse pines where the sun cannot see. The crips mountain air tumbles my hair obscuring my view. Still I lean into the wind, refusing to cease.
It would be easy enough to fall forwards, just give in. ‘Let the wind take you,’ I think. But I don’t. Instead I waver, back and forth. Stuck somewhere between where I want to be and where things seem to be taking me.
Problem is, forwards seems easy; as if giving up were easy. Forward feels like life defeat and peace in one fell swoop.
If I let go, if I tumble over this edge I don’t know if I could climb back out. I don’t know if I’d want to. That’s the problem with here and there, you can’t know if there is a place you can’t escape until you have firmly planted your feet on there’s soil.
So, I waver and wonder and puzzle and toil over things unknown. Because what else is there?