I have this unshakable sense that I'm falling. Instead of the proverbial metaphoric off a cliff hanging for your life I'm standing on solid ground but I can't keep my balance. And in an instinctual knee jerk reaction, in a desperate attempt to save my own life, I'm grasping for anything to hold on to. I discover that it's just me on this concrete plank that extends for infinite miles and valleys and I'm all alone, I am all by myself, and I'm grabbing at the concrete just so I can stand. And I know the concrete is going to provide me no support, it's going to help me none, but it's all I have. So I bloody my hands and my fingernails become frayed and my knuckles go raw, but it doesn't stop me from trying. The less chance I have of holding on the more inspired I become, the more desperate I realize I already am. Because all I really want to do is not fall down. And even if I can't stand I just don't want to fall. I really really don't want to fall.
The silence becomes deafening on the concrete plank. It causes an unforgivable ringing that beats at my drums and its beats and it beats and it beats and it pounds and I scream for it to stop but nothing can be heard above the silence that has insulated me in my new concrete home. And I am again reminded by my screaming that I am alone. All. Alone. So instead I look away from the concrete landscape that traps me to the moon which looks especially close on this particular day and remarkably homelike, and I chart the distance because when you can't do the most simplest of chores like standing or speaking, something like getting to the moon without even the most modest of means, say a rocketship, sounds within reasonable effort.
I don't really want to go to the moon. I have made a home of this earthly place. But the planning takes my mind off of the mess I've made of my hands.
