What will it take for me to lie my tattered body across the mother ground and tell it to do with me what it will? When will I lean in completely to the gravity around me and ask it to ferry me forward, just so? My strings were cut quite a long time ago, I am ready to act out the course of my life without a puppeteer, and still I clutch to them like life lines above a scorched earth. When will I let go and find a soft place to land? I wonder.

What might it be like to not try to bend the space around me? To not mold in my own image but to manifest it with my intentions? If everything in my path is but a reaction to my own actions than no additional work is required to create the atmosphere I crave. And still I tweak, and tuck, and perfect, and the world becomes warped. What might it be like, I wonder, if I let it take shape just the way it is intended to be? How novel.

Perhaps it’s just a thought, a little flitting thing I entertain before I sleep, but I wonder what it might be like to not fight against a guiding grip. Like a little dog that flails at the idea of being in the air, despite the security of a strong guardian. Could I be as ill advised? Am I flailing in the face of my fate, even among a strong guiding force? I wonder.