Taking the Fall.

It’s become a favourite occupation to see what old posts of mine people are reading (Google stats tells me) and then read them myself to see whether they make sense. Most of them do, and some are quite good. Others are embarrassing, one way or another. What interests me, though, is that some of them are completely incomprehensible even to me. What the hell was I talking about? I wish I knew. I was obviously in a different space then than I am now. I suppose that indicates either progression or regression, and it could be argued that either is better than stagnation.

It reminds me of that recurring dream I used to have in early childhood (and which I think I might have posted about, but I don’t remember. 3½ years is a long time in the blogosphere.)

I was standing on the battlements of a castle. It was dark, and so I couldn’t see how far away the ground was. And yet I knew that I had to jump off, which I did. Part of the way down I stopped and hung in the air, knowing I could stay there as long as I wanted. The problem was that my midriff was beginning to hurt, and I knew that the discomfort would get worse the longer I delayed the fall. Eventually, I let myself continue the drop, full of anxiety about what it would feel like when I hit the ground.

The landing was always made on soft grass and I was completely unhurt. I would roll over and open my eyes to see that I was sitting by a reed-fringed lake in the sunshine.

I still get the collywobbles every time I visit an old castle and stand on the battlements, and the urge to jump off is curiously strong.