Ruminations of a Working Man

My heart is pounding.

In some distant, echoing canyon, it reverberates against the walls like timpani drums at the crescendo of a symphony, announcing the grand entrance of the hero in a film. My head… my very being, is jarred. The poor quivering hair atop my head and along my arms, all standing at attention unceasingly, only taking a half-respite as I frenetically jump from one adventure to the next. My eyes, darting and dashing about every nook and cranny, searching for the esoteric truth, the depth of an austere rock face.

My intrepid fingers reach out into the open, the nebulous oblivion, the vivacious abyss, and they do not falter. They wrap around a bit of the swaddling blackness and tear, threatening to rip a hole and allow light to flood the cavern, ending the mystery.

A gentle mist tickles my nose while the relentless waterfall buffets my back, holding me fast against the indefinite yet infinite wall. Imperfections and jagged edges bloody my fingertips, the crimson in stark contrast with my white knuckles. I’ve never seen a deeper yet more vibrant shade of red. I plead to my knees to remain sturdy and vigilant lest I be swept away and cease to be. The closer I am to the edge of death, the more Life I become acquainted with.

And in an instant, I am thrown atop a 50-story skyscraper overlooking a vast concrete jungle. The skyline a mere illusion as the night sky only contrasts with the city lights, stars on both sides of the horizon. Silhouette against a pitch backdrop, each side holds immense mystery and untold tales. Each as hopelessly lonely as the other. Each offering the invitation of risk and discovery, gain and loss.

I look up and see a fluorescent green ribbon, throbbing. It casts angel rays into the Lake below, a Lake fraught with myths and legends of its ferocity. Edmond Fitzgerald possesses first-hand accounts of the terror; the mortified, steely fingers hold with an iron grip to secrets whispered in deafening gales. A scene so placid and serene in the daylight, it’s a wonder she be capable of such treachery.

Speaking of placid, there is nothing quite like the top of a mountain in Honduras on a foggy morning; the orchids dripping with dew, the song of a Mot Mot beckoning from somewhere in the distance. The smell of hot coffee wakes my consciousness, but my aching muscles won’t catch up for a couple hours.

Or something a bit closer to home: a back yard, resting in the shade of a mulberry tree, standing every few minutes to grab a few fistfuls of mulberries and eating them as I lazily breathe and sigh, letting the clouds pass me by, speaking their own form of lethargy into the air.

And then I look up at my computer screen at work. Heart palpitating, palms sweating, breathing heavily. If that is Living… What is this?

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