At the edge...

I’m not very good at living on the edge, preferring to stand back a few yards, seeing it all from a distance and wondering what lies beyond and beneath. Oh, I’m drawn to the edge, there’s no mistaking that and on a few occasions, on hearing its seductive call, I’ve sidled forward inch by sweaty inch, arms outstretched with the tightrope walkers blood that runs in my veins to peep over. Just a peep, a dizzying looking down at all the wonders spinning in front of me, calling to me.

And then I sit down making sure as much of my body as possible is touching the ground before backing away, on all fours, in a tremble and a flutter. Sometimes it’s hard to back away. Sometimes I want to stay on the edge and feel the pull of the magnetism far, far, below. Sometimes I even feel that it would be good to become a part of it and freefall for a while. It draws me in, scares and attracts me; scares because one day I may simply step into it I think. It’s in my mind you see.

Of course, past is past and there have been times when I’ve stepped so close to the edge that I could feel the crumbling air beneath my feet, times when looking down was easy, when I could stand and watch the sea crash below unblinking, without a flinch. Times when I’ve almost launched myself into the air trusting for a moment that I might fly or at the very least be eased down to the water by that magical umbrella I used to carry. My younger times, when the ticking clock wasn’t so important, The times before all these masks.

These days though I daren’t go near to the edge. I mislaid my umbrella years ago or perhaps I gave it away. The mask is firmly fixed and the clocks tick on, and if I get too close who knows? I may just give in and let it all fall away.