Here I stand, staring down the wall of decisions separating the mountain of my past from the overwhelming emptiness of my future. One foot steps into the void while the other clings to the bloodied rocks of the mountain. The wind hints at solutions reaped from its light-footed travels through time and space.
I could cling to the mountain of my memories. Rotting carcasses of long-dead glories would feed me, but the ravenous hunger of time passing would yield no quarter. The solid ground on familiar trails would provide sure comfort as might well-worn companions. Be forewarned: woe to the traveler who sees the beast of what might have been reflected in the eyes of his fellow traveler.
My eyes pick out a worn path winding tediously but surely down the cliff-face. With a well- thought plan, I might follow in the slow but measured steps of those who came before me. I could trust in the safety of their trail and the wisdom in their chosen destination. Perhaps the trail was built on the bones of broken dreams, cast aside as burdens impossible to carry. Perhaps I will lose my way and return to the mountain of my torment. Even worse would be to follow the trail to its end only to find myself wanting more. Even so, the path seduces me with its sure ending and sure logic of its turns.
My soul longs to jump from the cliff, trusting fate, braving the fall. Will I be broken by the fall, unable to stand and glory in the vastness of a life that can't be challenged? My soul believes in the wings of my dreams that can carry me to a life of meaning that won't be dimmed by death. If, perchance, I were to fly, would the whirlwind of too many dreams bring me crashing back to the mountain? Visions of my body, broken by the fall, with wings that used to shine, haunt my dreams and my days. Worse yet would be my leap of faith, launching myself towards my dreams, only to fall soundlessly into the void. I would lie unnoticed, abandoned even by the wind, denied glory and honor.
The final decision tickles my senses with perfumes and whispered promises of eternity. Were I to sit on the edge of the here-and-now, closing my eyes to all but my own soul, I could dissolve the mountain. Mountains are, after all made up of countless grains of sand, insignificant as individuals but able to cover the world. With my eyes closed, at my own pace, perched on the cliff of the here-and- now, I could dismiss each grain of memory. Resting between the past and future, I could pick up each grain of sand, each memory, and blow it away with a puff of breath. With no mountain to block its path, my soul could dissolve into water and become a stream. It would flow until it came to rest. My soul would become a pond, its smooth surface untouched by dreams or currents.