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On Edge

The lure of comfort is like a string
Pulling me inside-out.
It exposes my insides,
Making me vulnerable
And susceptible to the harsh winds
Of the outside world.
Every gust knocks me over
And each soft ripple
Brushes against my heart,
Stirring it
Until it dissolves.
I’ve built walls to protect
My insides –
Those squishy, malleable
Organs of life.
They guard me from feeling too deeply –
Until the clever wind
Creeps through the cracks,
And creates a wind tunnel.
Then it all bursts open
And comes pouring out,
And I’m left with the shattered pieces
Of my safe house.
I’m left to pick them up again,
Desperately trying to rebuild
What’s been lost.
But what if I lived
More on edge?
Not quick to anger,
But quick to action –
That same string pulling me forward,
Into life –
A visceral experience
That draws forth the
Guttural,
Wild,
Exuberant
Part of me.
What if my safe house didn’t need to exist,
Because I felt safe with myself?
What if I felt comfortable enough
In my own body,
That I didn’t need to seek
External sources of comfort?
The lure of comfort
Is what holds me back
From living life to its fullest,
From expressing my full potential.
Comfort tells me to stay complacent,
To deny the possibility
Of a more radiant,
Colorful,
And fantastical experience.
It could be dangerous,
But that rush of wind,
Standing at the edge of the cliff,
Would carry me up and out,
Into the world.
The longing wind inside
Threatens to destroy me,
To keep me wanting
With no real manifestation.
On the edge,
Something is bound to happen.

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