Precipice

Before the strength of man's conviction twisted the earth into a sphere, there was a village at the end of the world. Built into the basalt cliffs on the shores of earth's edge, it sat and watched and waited until such time as it was needed no more. The village had long past been named Rope, for that is what it guarded and waited upon.

Waves still washed up against the shore from an ocean only paces wide, and a blackness lay beyond, deep and dark as before-time. At the furthest point of the beach against the precipice of the world, an arm's length over the water into the great void, there was a rope, or perhaps a string. It hung from the heavens, falling between the stars, and in neither night nor day could you see its end, but it shimmered as gossamer in the daylight, and as opals in the night, an ever-shifting glimmer of light. It was a single strand, and none in the village knew its purpose, many thinking it was simply a portion of the frayed edge of the world. Beneath the rope, on the barest edge of the shore, sat a boy. He was from the village, though it had been some time since he was of the village. He was forbidden to approach the string, but no matter the punishment or the confinement, the next morning he was always discovered on the beach once more, staring up at the gossamer thread.

Well, that needs some editing. I shouldn't have written stream of consciousness when I'm this sleepy. Shikata ga nai. Today was an odd day, and one whose conclusion has left me more exhausted than feels warranted. There are some days where, when working, you simply do not know what to do. No projects are given, no direction is pointed out, no tasks are available, but you cannot go anywhere. I read a graphic novel (Endless Nights) and a little bit of Everything is Illuminated and wrote some journal while hours of uneasy nothingness teetered on by. Less than a week until I visit...home? Whatever it is, I'm excited to see my parents and siblings. It's been too long.

I also wrote a crazy essay on feminism after loving Scalzi's post, and agonized over whether I can be Christ's hands of healing. Not always, it seems. Not always, I'm afraid.