Plunge

Do you ever feel like you’re holding on to a crumbling cliff with the very tips of your fingers?

A cliff that once was a safe ledge, where there were other people that you got to know. You talked, became friends, and you felt relieved that you had this space. You had just fallen from a ledge higher up, one that felt like it was crumbling beneath your feet. You had no say in that and wanted to stay, but gravity and erosion don’t care for your sense of comfort. But now you had your footing again. It was fine. It was safe. Among everything scary in the world, this was safe.

And then things crumble again.

You ignore it at first. It’s fine. It’s okay. You can pretend it’s still the same. But eventually, there’s not enough place to stand. You panic. Eventually, you fall. You grab on to the remnants of your comfort zone and scream at the erosion to stop it. It doesn’t listen, of course. Erosion is change, and change is the only certainty.

You hear people below. People who stood with you not long ago. People who have already let go. Most are fine. They’ve landed on their feet, you assume, or at least they’ve been able to walk their bruises and scrapes off. It’s okay, they say. You can keep a piece of the ground as a memento. It’ll still be with you. It’s okay.

It’s such a long fall.

You can’t see the ground.

It’s so uncertain.

You want to go back.

Back to when it all still felt safe and okay.

Is that so much to ask?

Yes, it is.

Erosion is change, and change is the only certainty. To ask it to stop is to ask for time to pause.

It feels unfair. And perhaps it is.

It feels like it is out to get you. But it isn’t.

Change can be unfair, but it isn’t malicious.

It isn’t out to get you.

It just is.

It happens to everyone.

It is the only certainty.

That doesn’t make it easy, though.

Taking the plunge yourself is scary. But the only other choice is to wait until there’s nothing left to hold on to. At least if you let go yourself, you’ll know when it happens. But is that better? To sacrifice the bit of comfort you have left? And for what? More uncertainty?

Most people below seem fine. And many do indeed have a piece of rock with them. A piece of the ledge. It isn’t gone.

But it’s not the same, is it?

Do you ever feel like you’re holding on to a crumbling cliff with the very tips of your fingers?

Do you ever feel like you’re holding on to your teenage fun, as it crumbles under adulthood?