They take her out to the shore and point to the faint edge
of the horizon.
That’s the thing, they announce. That’s what you were made for.
They can’t imagine her doing anything else. She couldn’t
possibly want to do anything but this.
This is her thing. It’s what she’s meant to do.
This is what she was made for.
Perhaps they’re onto something, unlike her. Perhaps they just know.
And perhaps it’s only right that they’re the ones who coax her. Perhaps
that is what they were made for.
It’s not like they seek something that will endure. Just once, you 'll do great, they smile to reassure.
A quick fix is all, nothing more than that. No pressure, of course. No
pressure at all.
A one-shot, a cheap thrill. A quick dash in the woods.
A sneaky run that could become her intimate adventure. A failed detour
that could blend in with the roadmap.
The comfort of knowing she tried, for them.
The insecurity of being
no more than a one-time end credit.
Often she’d really want to, but a block would set it. She’d freeze
and that’d be the end of her little experiment.
Perhaps she wasn't smart enough. Or cool enough. Or hot enough. Perhaps lukewarm was all she ever really was.
She saw the wisdom of their plan. She lived the loopholes it contained.
It’s hard to lean over the table and promise not to look over your
shoulder.
To know that they are your audience and to still let go.
It’s hard to bend over backwards when you don’t know what you’re
reaching for.
And it’s harder still when you don’t know what’s reaching out for
you.
