Thursday, March 4, 2010

Every now and then I get a grip, a slippery grasp on the rung, but I get my feet up, and I look below me, and the air is thin up here so my breathing is shallow, but I look out, and I see angels in the clouds above me, and I'm reaching them, and I see the world below, the texture of the rippling waves and the shore and marvel, at this living, loving, painting, questioning, statistic impossibility I come from. And I see how high I am up the mountain. And I see that the steps above are just as the steps below.

The ladder never changes.

But every now and then I lose my grip, and fall, and the fall is terrifying, and as my heart pumps adrenaline and the winds blind me the thoughts begin to race, I'm falling, I'm falling, I lost it all, the climb is an illusion, the top is an illusion, I'm Sysiphus, I don't want to do this forever and ever and on and why isn't there anyone here, why can't anyone help me, why do I reach out my hand when I know you'll never be there when I fall?