It is a plunge all writers must take, into the withering falls. Where despair contains you in the cage of your greatest fears, while you drown thinking you can’t succeed, until you hit rock bottom. It is a risk we must take, especially when our past wounds reopen, installing a fresh blade of doubt, that is sometimes hard to heal.
Who shall rescue us from this unsacred place, where we’ve momentarily lost all hope. It is hard to imagine that we can resurface with the confidence we once had. We prod, and believe that is enough force to save us. It is enough, however, to pull us higher, but not to pull us from the withering falls.
Are we going to try to call for help? Why if no one hears our wail, are we supposed to allow ourselves be filled in sudden confidence, enough to make us float?
I suppose our loved ones will discover our bread crumbs, from the days we left them for all to follow, all those who understood our every thought, and recognized our every step. Our hope is for them to gaze upon the wonders we built in our best days, and be aware of the obstacles we left for them to learn from.
Are we to make them apprentices for our future rescue? Are we brave enough to give it a try, on our own, and try to climb back up to where we once fell from?
We won’t know how steep the withering falls are going to be, but we can trust we will leave enough footprints for others to follow, and reach their hand to save us. Or have enough on our own to pull ourselves back to safety.
Of course! The world doesn’t rule me today!
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