just_writing | (no subject)

I was writing in my 'sort your head out' book (for want of a better name). Most of what ends up in there is extremely badly-written. This seemed, to me, to be an exception. As well as being a reasonably accurate reflection of where I find myself.

I hit a point yesterday where I sat balanced in the window of my soul, arms around my knees, staring out at a new world. Behind me were the ranged thoughts, feelings and responses of my life. In front, a blank world - trees, rivers, people all to be discovered. Everything clean, new - devoid of undertones. I can feel these moments coming often now - points where I can choose whether to step back or forward; can decide which path to walk.

The newness - almost rawness - of it is disturbing. There's comfort in the familiarity of habit - in the known and measured way. Comfort and stagnation both, though; there's no fresh water there that isn't poured by hand. There's no way to be truly sure of what awaits outside - it's lack of use-worn, smooth-edged known-ness is unpredictable. That's what makes it scary, of course. That's also what makes it fresh - clear water running, replenished and refreshed, and changing every moment. However fresh the draught - however refreshing - the first taste will always be a point where fear can whisper in your ear. The possibility of poison is a constant theme.

So - balanced. Worlds within and worlds without. Hands cupped to drink; thirst growing ever more insistent, less deniable. Compelled by an imperative I do not wholly understand. Which way? Which taste - new tang of mineral unrecognised; deep comfort of known nuances developing.

It's all in the choice.