KP: Our topsy-turvy world does tile, but balance is achievable. Sweetened air too thin to breathe stabs through your lungs. With the pulpy strawberry sweetness of summer smeared across your face you decide that balance is achievable, but only with practice. And how can you practice when any sudden move will send you slippingsliding over the edge?
There is no certainty. But what can we do? Naught but close our eyes and reach for the impossible, knowing it might not be attained. Hope.
Like a flat table top, strong and smooth and slippery, certainty at times lies with uncertainty; the irony of impossibility
When you were little you would put on your socks and sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide across the waxy wooden floors. Now you know better.
One drop too many and the lesson was learned - learned until forgotten in the passing giggles of excitement. Laughing as I try to slip and slide without falling - a breathless, painful, lovely game. Slipping off the table reminds me of the bottom as I glimpse the sea of cars and ant-people
but then I see a small figure and pause in my climbing to the surface; is it worth it?
I let go and plummet,
far
far
far
far
far
as if the leap, the plunge, is eternal.
Forever falling off the side of the earth to the earth from the skies - into the sky from my earth.
I spin, and the world spins, and laughing strangely I fall to certain death. And land spinning, rolling downward battered and bruised and laughing as pieces fracture and roll away. Down, down to be smashed by passing cars. Laughing, laughing because Hope is still there like the flat, slippery table of certainty I left behind. I reach out a hand and grasp a sleeve and do not let go. The air clears and I choke and gasp a breath. The sea recedes.
A painful, breathless, lovely game.
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