I link up with The Gypsy Mama on Fridays, where writing solely for the fun of it is the priority:
“On Fridays over here a group of people who love to throw caution to the wind and just write gather to share what five minutes buys them. Just five minutes. Unscripted. Unedited. Real. Your words. This shared feast.”
Today’s topic: RISK
To hold it close then let it all go. To remove the mask and show the real. To stop the game and just play.
It’s hard — living on the edge of the abyss — where the known is secure and the unknown is exciting and ridiculous and a passing vapor of a wish.
Heaviness swirls in penetrating black clouds whispering, “Who are you? There’s so many better, so many more talented. Why you?” And they’re right, those whispers. I am nobody with nothing special to offer. The others have a gift that’s brighter and shinier and deeper. There’s no real reason why me. None that I can think of anyway.
But after years of The Same, the whispers aren’t as powerful as they used to be. The curiosity of What If beckons me from afar like a ferris wheel at the fair. It’s so big that I don’t think I can get on and ride. But the squeals of delight from others who ignored the whispers dance in my ears. The smell of their corn dogs and cotton candy waft in my nose like a song — the music telling of the joy of the ride.
The Ride isn’t about how it begins or how it ends or how long it lasts. It’s about getting on and having fun. It’s about letting go and admiring the view and seeing how small the whispers are from the top. And then, with every pass at the very top, being the one to squeal with delight, writing my own song about the joy of the ride.
I’ve purchased my ticket and am standing in line.
It’s my turn to ride.