The air changes first. A subtle shift in the barometric pressure of the soul, A scent of ozone and old, familiar lightning. I was standing on the plateau of my own peace, Watching the horizon I built with steady hands, Until the word – the detail – the shadow Stepped out from the brush.
Then comes the Surprise. The initial jolt of the shove. It’s not a physical hand on my back, But the weight of a ghost from a decade ago. Whispering, “I know this road.” The ground beneath my boots turns to vapor, And suddenly, the gravity of the past Claims its right to my heart.
I am Falling. And I am reaching. A desperate need to grab at the thin, cold air – Clutching for the “what ifs” and the “signs,” Trying to snag my fingernails into the cracks of a potential That was never solid to begin with. My mind is a frantic bird, Beating its wings against the memory of the souls And the wreckage of lives I tried to mend with my own skin.
Then the Fear sets in. It’s a cold, metallic hum in my marrow. My chest tightens, a rebel’s armor suddenly too small, As the physical truth of the descent takes hold. My pulse is the rhythm of the “warning,” A percussion of panic that beats against my ribs, Reminding me of the texture of the stones below.
I can see the Landing. It feel inevitable – The thud of the “fixer,” The bruise of the “believer,” The heavy silence that follows the crash of a dream That wasn’t tethered to reality.
But still… I am. I am the one who measures the wind. And even as the “fall” screams through my nervous system, I realize the Cliff is an illusion Constructed by my own survival. I don’t have to hit the ground. I can simply breathe, Step back into the center of my own quiet land, And realize that I am the earth – And the earth does not fall.
~ Elizabeth Proett