Flip—flop.
Flop—flip.
This way—that way.
That way—this.
Think one thing—think another.
And out and back.
And out.
Yes.
But back?
Out—anxiety.
Back—not possible.
But still, staying for as long as possible-holding back.
Choose. Choose.
It should be simple—ease over anxiety.
What could be easier?
Holding back from going out.
Surely simplicity itself?
But time.
We're caught up in it.
Time steals everything from us.
Time runs away, with the world, with every other, with all things.
So in its wake we're consumed.
Eaten up.
And in our anxiety we lose sight of it—lose sight of our life.
And time overtakes us.
Like a beast.
Its slavering lips lapping around all things—threatening, slurping, licking; leaving a gloss of spit that will corrode all that we are, all things, and burn into them until they’re consumed.
And we race against it, chasing to keep up with it, to know something of ourselves until it all goes black.
Or white.
But black or white we know we shall fall—in the end we will fall.
Over the edge—no longer caught this time.
Flip-flop—caught or not caught.
This way—that way, black or white.
One thing—another, one moment in time then another out of it.
Out.
And then never back.
Yes, the meaning of the choice is fleeting, but the making of it is simple.
Out with ease, and in time holding back from the brink of the black.
