From the Edge of Darkness 18: We Balance On The Knife's Edge

Charley Freiberg photo

We balance on the knife’s edge.

We balance on the knife’s edge, and the view up here is astounding. 

Autumn quivers and preens as she delicately edges towards winter. Winter struts and wobbles as he edges towards us.

We balance on the knife’s edge; on one side, the rocky fall, mossy and glorious; on the other, a sea of fallen glorious leaves, piled up over invisible earth gone sere and hard and cracked with pits.

Winds buffet us; the sea waves crash about us. We balance. We balance.

Eleven – more – dead, shot by a man who fell over the edge, a man burdened by guns he had no problem buying, a man whose mind became filled with the howling winds.

The air about us is foetid; our eyes are misted with it. Pipe bombs, poison, fly through the air, land at our feet. Someones fell off the edge of sanity. Someones turned anger and fear into spew. Someones became lost and tumbled over, losing their finger-tip grip on the sharp edge. Someones hurled horror as they fell.

We balance on the knife’s edge.

We balance on the knife’s edge and the edge becomes sharper, narrower, harder to stay upright upon. Words rain down on our heads; words sharpen the edge. Words with one meaning on one side, with another on the other. Words that twist our senses into a nightmare so we doubt the reality of what we see and hear. Words that push against our balance, slip our toes off the edge, loosen the grip of those holding on, barely, by their fingertips.

We balance on the knife’s edge and we can’t see safe haven, we don’t know who to trust. We balance; we wobble. How long until we fall?

I am afraid of that man with the gun strapped to his thigh and his hoary righteous certainty. I am afraid of that mother with the gun in her purse and her anxious, hyper-sensitized determination. I am afraid of that person spewing warped ideas, warped words, warped emotions. I’m afraid of that person who sees a path to his own richness and fame along this narrow edge we balance upon. I’m afraid because they have no idea they’re sleepwalking and can’t split reality from their encompassing dream.

If we fall the fall will be spectacular. As we fall, we will think we’re glorious, flying and untouchable. If we fall we will slice off our tethers. If we fall – when we fall – if we fall – when we fall – 

If we fall there will be no one left to catch us. We will plunge into the unknown. The knife’s edge will have become too thin to balance upon. If we fall – when we fall – if we fall –

We’ve turned away our neighbors who are falling, pushed them over into the abyss, children ripped from arms, souls wailing. We’ve turned our backs on neighbors who are going about their common business, putting our feet out, trying to trip them. We’ve hurled mudballs; we’ve dragged slime from swamps long past and formed it into masks, into earplugs, into mouthpieces that bend our meaning, bend all meaning, and so adorned, we face our neighbors and smile – leer – grimace - show our teeth.

We balance on the knife’s edge. We gather weapons, animosity, corruption, betrayals, exhaustion, ennui, heart-sickness, hard-heartedness, fear, spooks and bogeymen, monsters in closets, frustration, confusion, misdirection, anger, wounds long tended like precious jewels, chips long carried on shoulders grown irritable, smoke and mirrors, lies in enticing make-up, lies that enervate, lies that harden our backbone and dispel flexibility, lies that excite, lies that destroy, lies that dance about us in pretty dresses: alluring, luring, captivating. We carry it all on our backs, balance it in our minds. 

We wobble. Winter’s coming, with its frost, ice and sleet, hail and slippery slopes, its pounding, pressing winds.

We balance on the knife’s edge. The view up here is astounding. 

(Publication pending in the Concord Monitor.)