Last year, there was beneath our every plummet-point a loosely woven net to catch us. Though some fell through the gaps, screaming with no precision and all the anguish of young mind in the midst of a war, others clung to each strand of rope and hoisted themselves back onto the solid rock. But also, last year, there was above our every climb a ceiling, a place where the path stopped and the sky went up and there was no in between. You could stand on the very crux of a mountain and reach with both hands, but you would grasp only a bit of stray wind, and perhaps the lone insect. You see, we were provided with make-up work if we were in danger of failing, but the system couldn't contemplate an A+; literally, there were rules preventing it.
And now we are set loose into the wilds of a new walk, on a different island, with different views from every side and no clear compass. We follow the stars, if we can find them, and we look for the sunrise and crane our heads to pinpoint the exact center of the orb on the horizon before it becomes bright and a eyesore. The incline keeps getting steeper, but the road keeps winding up to an untouched place that lures us in with bush berries and praise you can pull right off the vine. The problem is, one step wrong and we will fall to the new net: a variety of angry waves, lapping at the shore and sky and devouring everything they find.
No comments:
Post a Comment