My feet are grounded (Are they?) in stability, but impulse lies at less than an arm's stretch away. Sometimes the urge feels so disturbingly palpable and palatable that I become engrossed with desire to factually find the cliff I've so often seen in a vision as refuge. An occurrence made frightening by its coming and going without a pattern of predictability. I allow myself to be dragged down, strings attached, by the same practicality and insatiable perfectionism that prevents me to flee via other venues as well. Thwarting my own escape, by all paths?
Small reliefs and distractions are all that still keep my glass-sharded innards contained within this tissue paper skin, conflicted in standpoint, reluctant of change, cowed by sacrifice, immobilized in the name of responsible care.
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