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Walk before you leap
You know what I did before I could even walk? I climbed…I climbed up the rails. As high as I could. And I jumped. I jumped off the balcony. What was I running from? Did I foresee all this? Was the long walk not worth taking? Was I going to jump anyway? Or did I just want to climb? Or maybe it was the attention I wanted? Of my uncle’s eyes fixed on me, and no one else. knees trembling, hands held high. Expecting me and no one else. As if receiving his awakening? Was I the greatest vision he would ever receive. Nappied, without anxiety, free-falling. Was I running away before I could walk? Did he save me or carve me a niche. I did not fit in.
Now you could walk, you could run. Run away from the ball, heart pounding like the cheap plastic, bouncing to hit-you-out-the-game, run away from that man trying to bite time into your forearm, run away from hissing geese, and gypsies who had children in their parcels, children who were naughty. Laced away from their families forever. You never liked running until you became one of those pale-faced-petals, running from one hole to the other. You ran from cold, you ran from the warmth of human-touch, you ran to the metro even though you had four minutes. Running became a habit.
Then you jumped. You jumped into conclusions, you jumped into the water. Without dipping your toe this time you had decided, without testing the waters. Let yourself drench. The water was cold, you knew you should have checked. “No regrets” you said. Because it’s inspirational, and has more dignity. Being a survivor has a strange stoicism to it. Like you could have died but you didn’t. You were a survivor before you could even walk. But you knew well, jumping off the balcony was much safer than jumping into the arms of a stranger you knew only for six days. You learnt it the hard way.
Then you took a walk. Around the campus that homed you for years, around corners that you knew so well, like the resident cats. You showed him the plants you love, the mushrooms, where you like to sit, and how to listen to parrots, how much you were capable of giving in return for so little. Then he took you out for a walk. And showed you how not to love, and what love isn’t, and he showed you all your imperfections. You could see moss sporophytes under daylight from afar, you could spot fresh mushrooms, parrots upon trees, nymphs, knew water bear, see the air between branches, what a tree looks like from beneath, and from its branches, and what things it wrote for decades. Yet you could not see the lack of light in his eyes when he looked at you. You could hear leaves hit the ground, hear the sunlight leaving the last little twig but you could not hear the neutrality in his voice when he talked to you. You could touch a leaf eyes-closed and identify it, but could not identify the prick you looked at for months. So eventually you did. The next day you went out for a walk. It was spring. You saw wild-peonies.
Now you are here, wanting or having to climb. Up the boulder, up a mountain, up the hierarchy. Because you think the view up there is worth seeing, because you want to be seen, or because you want to have muscular arms. You know you are used to holding on till your fingertips bleed. Do you want to see the summit and return to where mortals reside? Or are you climbing up just to jump again? You know this time, there is no one to catch you. You have not grown wings. You have not grown teeth.
You wanted to walk the ancient trails. Go back to thousands of years ago where you would’ve followed goats. “Then what?” you could not tell. Likya, Latmos, even Olimpos won’t save you, said your therapist. You are not of gods, not of nymphs, not a merchant, nor a prophet. (though you may be blind to many things). You are 27. Get yourself some nice clothes, some jewellery, don’t you like chocolate, why not find private tutoring, you need to put aside a lot, you’re going to need a lot. New house, new job. You said you wanted a light-weight tent. Although “want” would be a strong word. You did not know what you wanted. You just wanted to walk away, thousand years, thousand miles. You knew you would run an ultra-marathon if you could.
So now you’re staying. Putting aside the one thing you thought you wanted. Get yourself some win. Upgrade your wardrobe. Maybe bang some guys. Work so that you can afford your therapy. And repeat.
“Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.”
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