I’ve spent so long living in “I can’t” land I’ve become agoraphobic. Stepping outside the box I live (cower) in is impossible. Almost. I do step out on occasion. I stand on the front step, holding firmly to the doorknob, just in case. What if I slip? What if I fall? What if the world suddenly shifts on its axis and I am pulled away from my box, from my fortress of security? Yeah, I hold on tight. It’s all I’ve got. It’s the oxygen supply. I can hold my breath for a minute or maybe two, but sooner rather than later, I need to crawl back inside and suck up some of that precious air. I pretty sure if I don’t, I’ll die. At least it feels that way.
So I stand in the doorway, making sure not to venture too far from safety, and watch others as they glide by, fly by, battle their way by. Most of them look fine. They look like they know what they’re doing. They look confidant. They obviously know something I don’t know. Where do you buy that rule book? How come I never got mine? I keep thinking if I knew the rules, I could get out there and swim with the rest of the world. If I knew the rules. Obviously I don’t, or I would at least be doing the dog paddle right now. And so I stand in the doorway and watch the world go by. Without me.
Looks are deceiving.
There’s only one rule; make it interesting.