Most of my life is a forgotten cliffside. There's nothing you can really do about it, it's just the consequence you pay for being alive.
I don't remember a lot of my childhood. I can remember my schools, my friends, my parents, my teachers. But I don't remember my sisters. Only my brother, the little boy carrying the family name on his shoulder blades... But he is not ready for that.
As for my sisters... I do not officially "know them" until they begin to leave. I was 11 when they started leaving my house, and 13 when they started re-entering my life.
There is no excuse for arriving late to my life crisis. But what crisis is there anyway?
I grew up alone.
Sisters too old, brother too young, parents too protective.
Too eager to run through the halls of my early life, and high school is not what I expected the years to be. But I am still here... alive.
And there will always be that to hold on to when the sky falls from the stars that pin up the rest of the universe.
Or the the clouds fall from the blue sky just before that cliffside collapses into the abyss.
This is the artistry that is my life on a power surge. Feeling the shock of the first kiss, and the break of the last word.
The many voices, and single sayings. The before and after. The push and then the fall.
The feeling of all my memories being shot.
But not killed.
This is the joy of living off of the electric tower... or the Eiffel tower.
This is life made wild, love made public, friends made family, me made whole again.
Me surviving the cliffside fall for the 378th time this week.
Safety nets were never written in the fine print of this circus act.
But this feeling can kill as much as it can save. It is, and always will be a cosmic shot across the front of my skull...
Opening my mind into eternity. Until I decide to go back to that cliffside...