Flower on the Precipice This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

March 4, 2010
We all dream that we are flying in the sky with our eyes open.

I stood on the edge of the mountain’s top, staring out over the blue-green-gold world that began where the mountain ended. Far away, so far that they were nearly the blue of the sky, more mountains rose to scratch the heavens.

So clear, so perfect.

Below my feet, the birds wheeled, but even they could not fly up to where I stood. Even they could not stand atop the world.
The wind blew by with gentle force, calling for me to step off the edge and join it in the sky. I wanted to follow, to step off the overbearing earth and dance among the clouds, just like that cold breeze.
‘We think that the flower on the precipice is beautiful,’ I thought, ‘because we stop our feet at the cliff’s edge, unable to step into the sky like that fearless flower.’
I closed my eyes and let the wind take me one step closer to the edge, pushing my body like a great pair of hands, like fate.
I laughed aloud at my own thought, though the greedy, rising wind stole the sound as it passed my lips.

There is no such thing as fate for us. Only those who stumble and miss a step fall into that river called Fate.

The wind blew harder, and I closed my eyes, feeling it all but lift me from my feet. The world below was so distant. I was not attached to it, and it held no appeal for me. Why did I need that noisy, rushing, seething mass of humanity when the clear sky was so beautiful? Why concern myself with people when I could stand above everything and hear the crisp wind laugh? People were loud and crude in comparison to this earthly beauty, and though I knew that no one could survive entirely alone, I was content to keep my contact to a minimum.

We attract each other, like drops of water, like the planets spinning ever onward in their orbits.

I stepped even closer to the edge of the cliff, until my feet touched the open air and nothing held me back.

We repulse each other, like magnets, like our differences from one another. But we cannot help but love everything relating to this crumbling world. We cannot cry, for that is a surrender of the body to the heart, and only proves that we are creatures that do not know what to do with our hearts. Bu we MUST cry, for there are no words to describe this beauty. No words to give voice to the feeling of perfect solitude that holds in its core the very essence of who and what we are.

I leaned forward, my arms spread to catch the wind. It buffeted me, pushing me back and forth, and I laughed again. Who would willingly choose humanity over this?
And as I stood there, the wind pushed me over the edge, and I spread my arms as wide as they could go. Below me, the dark forests and golden fields blurred into a whirling world of earthy colors and celestial radiance. The clouds were corpse-pale streaks across my eyes, a dead-white invasion of the otherwise perfect expanse of blue. High above, the day-paled moon hung like a benevolent observer, watching as I fell with dreamlike speed.
‘If this is not paradise, then paradise is nowhere,’ I thought, peaceful. Even the wind in my ears was a gentle sound, but at the same time terrible, like a tiger trying not to crush the flowers.

From here, you can even see the beginning of the death of tomorrow. But no one stands on the sky. We cannot. That is a throne reserved for gods and eagles.

Like a stroke of sanity, I fell past the wheeling birds, ever closer to the feet of the mountain, swathed in brightly-leaved trees. At any moment, I felt as though the sky would tear open and let paradise spill out to flood the world. I laughed one last time, and the sound was lifted from my lips as I drifted towards the earth.

We reach out our hands, brush away the clouds and pierce the sky, as though to touch the very gods of the heavens in our arrogance. So few ever manage to see that perfection, let alone touch it or hear it, this screaming symphony of blazing souls. But everyone needs to, because it is the foundation on which this world is built.

Above me, the pale moon watched and the birds wheeled, and I closed my eyes to the sight of that perfect expanse that held every imaginable shade of blue.

The frosted peaks burn silver in the dying light. Below, like a drop of blood, a scarlet flower drifts and falls to earth.





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