For a time, I know no bounds

Stormy+sky+3

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Stormy sky 3

In freefall I tumble, but it feels more like gliding to me.

I chase the tragedy—reach my hands out and grasp for more and more as the pieces materialize in my hands like thick clouds in the sky. The fall isn’t easy, and I spin through the air in a way that is nowhere near graceful.

The hecticness, the scramble, the concept of all or nothing; I love it here. Here is where I feel the most at home, but I don’t feel the most alive. And I jolt to a halt in the air as if I am yanked upwards by a puppet string, and the whiplash allows me to glimpse through the mist of forming rain to see another life. It looks like a paradise, an oasis of warmth and happiness and success, but then I look towards the shadows of places and faces and am reminded of where I belong.

I belong in the chaos, somewhere where things fluctuate to an irrational degree but don’t quite go over the edge. I belong in control, not with it, and the golden horizon rising up from the land to meet me holds no promise quite like that. Floating between the frayed edges allows me to hold both worlds in my hands until the puppeteer decides that it is time for me to choose.

. . . but then I look towards the shadows of places and faces and am reminded of where I belong.”

This is where the fall becomes something deeper, darker even. The puppet master rises up when I least expect it to, and it’s figure takes on a persona of a storm I can’t weather. A shadow falls from its hat to cover its face in a shroud of menacing darkness, and it sneers at me when it realizes the power it holds within just four paper-thin strings. My joy ride turns into something of a night terror, and at this very moment, I see the ground.

When things are good, I never run out of space to aimlessly crash through the blue abyss. But when the puppeteer rises from its ashes it’s rested in since I burned it to the ground the last time, the charcoal particles stick to it like bitter resentment as it’s entire figure turns a sickly colour of black to tower over me.

Suddenly nobody is in control, not even me, and its resentful nature allows it to be ruthless with no guilt or bounds. I find myself pulling my dagger from its sheath, hidden behind layers of false hope and belief in myself, and prepare myself for another battle as the strings lift me to eye level with it.

Before I fight again I wonder, how much longer can I keep doing this?