I tell people this life feels like I’m standing on the edge of the abyss. One that is unstable. It shifts and crumbles under my feet. I must constantly find balance. All the damned time I am making adjustments; most minor but not all. No, not all, by any means.
No different from driving on black ice, over-correction is often catastrophic. As an aside, I already decided my rapper name will be “Black Ice” so, true dat, Homey. There’s no slowing down either. It feels like some a-hole screwed the gas pedal to the floorboard and cut the brake line for good measure.
It’s the quintessential controlled-skid of life. Always moving forward at break-neck speed, but with the seatbelt firmly secured as though it might help when the car explodes into pieces. Looking up, as the world spins, and seeing nothing but danger and all of what could be crashed into. Oh, the times when I could feel the force of swiping something and just hoping the damage is only cosmetic. You know, nothing more than a scruff mark that can be buffed out with some hard work… if the time ever avails itself, that is.
There’s no rest stops along the way.
Is the road to hell really paved with good intentions, as some suggest? Well, being down that road, passing through hell, and returning to it over-and-over again — like I’m on an oval racetrack, for pity’s sake — I can tell you that might not be the only road to hell. There are many, many roads… and paths… to hell. My road to hell was paved by senseless violence.
The worst thing about it? I look over and see Ryan is a passenger. He’s riding shotgun… tethered in a wheelchair. He’s depending on me for safe passage to a destination that is unmapped. The best I can do at this time is point us in the right direction and keep our “north star” as reference.