I toe my way up to the precipice and lean into the wind at my back. How much pressure can I, will I withstand before it tosses me over the craggy edge? With my arms tucked to my sides, I am a ship's mast, not its sail, and I do not fly, but sway. The air screams past my ears, promising failure or a future; I cannot tell which.
I find I do not care.
I know that feeling, I think. It feels like a dream I forgot?
ReplyDeleteBeautifully done, dear, but also-- don't make the wind decide for you?