I find myself standing on a rope so thin
it disappears beneath my feet,
drawn between the life I have survived
and the one I cannot yet reach.
The wind knows my name.
It whispers,
just one step wrong.
Everything is blurred from here.
The people below,
their voices,
their promises,
the sky itself.
I cannot tell whether I am walking toward tomorrow
or simply delaying the fall.
They tell me falling would not kill me.
Then why does every trembling muscle beg me to hold on?
Why does my heart beat like something
trying to outrun its own ending?
If the ground is so forgiving,
Why have I spent every waking hour
punishing myself for the slightest shift,
the smallest mistake,
the weight of simply being alive?
I balance
not because I am graceful,
but because I am afraid.
Afraid of looking down.
Afraid of looking ahead.
Afraid that after all this struggle,
the other side will look exactly like the one I left behind.
Still,
my feet remember movement
even when my mind forgets hope.
So I keep walking.
Because somewhere beyond this blur
There must be a place
where the rope becomes solid ground,
where I no longer have to earn
the right to exist
with perfect balance,
where living is not a performance
measured by how well I hide my shaking hands.
Until then,
I will carry my fear
like another heartbeat,
and take one impossible step after another,
hoping that survival is nothing more
than refusing to let go.
