If I slip and fall back into the past where only creatures knawing on empty dispair set traps for me, in halls of mirrors reflecting each and every failure, rejection and pointless path experienced in this wasted world, then the famished, ravanous writhing beast twists in my gut, overwhelms and devours me.
This present moment, a tightrope, kept taught with stress and anxiety. To one side of it, the past falls away, not to some safe net but spikes, swords on which to fall. Each a could have been, a what if, a if only. To the other side….: Dare not to look down.
Future stakes being sharpened, passing under the thinning wire. It is hard not to expect more of the same. What can change it? Why should it alter? The only way is to blank it out, deny that it is there beneath me, below me, behind and ahead of me and just the fatigue from concentrating on the rope beneath my aching, lost feet.
And so, slowly, tire, of balancing on the wire.
