Stormy

I peer over the edge of a cliff, looking forlornly at the jagged rocks being suffocated by violent sea spray, for what seems like eons. I have not jumped; I have not walked away. I keep looking over my shoulder, and I see a sun freckled clearing: yellows and oranges; emeralds and teals, encompassed by the scent of early spring pollen clinging in the air. A dark energy clasps his hands on my cheeks, and forces me to look back at the storm that is forming beyond the boulders and the grey vastness of the daunting sea.
Jump. Jump. JUMP. I don’t.
Instead I climb down, nicking my skin as I descend. I manage to gently place the sole of my foot onto the water. From down here, the storm is calm. It is tranquil.
There were times in my existence where I had managed to clamber back to the top of the cliff,  cutting my body up, bruising it, breathless. But I still stayed there, on the edge. I could never pick myself up and leave. Just leave. Just go, what you want, is not here. It will never be here. Just go. JUST FUCKING GO.
But I didn’t, and I still don’t. I sit and dangle my feet off the edge, lean back on my palms and watch the storm brew wild, never changing, always there.
Always there.
For me.

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