What I do, it’s a dance on a tightwire. It’s flying, Hitchhiker’s Guide definition: just throw yourself at the ground, and miss. Simple. But it stops working when you cease to believe you’re actually doing it. Precarious, no?
What I fear: that I will one day take the plunge, and you will all back away and shake your heads and shuffle off uncomfortably. Like Lucy in the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, saying, “You saw it too, Edmund! Tell them I’m not making it up” and then watching in horror as he claims it was only a childish game.
Maybe it’s not that I can’t fall in love; maybe it’s that I’m in love with the whole fucking lot of you.
We spend our childhoods learning to be humble, but without sheer, unadulterated hubris I am nothing.
What would you say if I told you I had wings?
There isn’t a fine line between insanity and faith: there is no line at all. Face facts: I am seeking to go mad.
I have this one slender line to catch hold of: “By their fruits, you shall know them”. Pragmatism, William James-style. As long as I can make your eyes catch fire, I am not utterly lost.