write dangerously, she said.
write what you wish someone would write to you.
get to the edge of the cliff and look down, then take a deep breath and jump.
flail if you must, but jump.
the world has not ended, me living at the eastern edge of it, and so we must go on.
it's dangerous. it's dark. it's murderous. it's terrifying.
but it has not ended.
and so we must, and shall, continue to breathe, and eat, and walk, and have conversations, and live- dangerously.
because we are on a whirling planet at the edge of a vast universe filled with terrifying and beautiful things, and we understand none of it, and our whitened knuckles grip gravity because we don't know how else to spin through space without falling off. we are not reepicheep, composed in his small coracle, riding the shimmering blue wave into aslan's world. we toil here in the backwoods of the galaxy, knowing not what we spin or weave, and we gasp as the ball we're stuck on rotates endlessly through space with us clinging desperately to every tiny blade of grass.
and so, there. that was dangerous.