Dear Pneuma,

I am a person who lives in a crux. I am defined more by choices made at the places of interior discord, than by moments of inner harmony and peace. I seem to always stand at the place where what I want and what I believe cross one another and disagree. I do not have the gift that smoothes rough edges, or marries the separate houses of warring goals into a single, happy home. Efficiency is not my middle name.

Instead, I constantly wrestle with shadowy ethics, frozen from movement that a left turn might lead to Hell. I fret about disaster, unable to see where fear bleeds immobility into caution, and I only ever seem to decide by throwing myself at a goal and damning the consequences.

While this tactic has worked so far, it takes a lot of energy. It takes a lot of nerve. It is like throwing oneself from an airplane-it means deciding that one is OK to die. One never jumps without knowing that truth, but life is long. Though I can sometimes nerve myself to jump, other times, I do not believe I have the strength to survive the regrets: the choices not made, the ideals not martyred for, the people I leave hurt or unfulfilled.

I stand at the point where pathways cross, terrified that a step one direction will rob me of myself and my word, while convinced that a step in another direction will stifle my spirit and leave my soul sullen and worn. Yet, me being me, I thrive in the tension and will not let myself simply rest there at the point of no decision. I refuse to let fate, the winds, or even God take responsibility for my choice.

So, I think. I fret. I worry. I ponder. I hope. I analyze. I dissect. I suck the marrow from the skeletons of my future, and I wonder. I wait, curious to see where I will go, when tense apprehension gives way to passionate conviction and I finally choose to take a step.

As Ever,
Cobalt Dreams