There are a hundred and one things...
There are a hundred and one places...
That makes two hundred and two.
It counts for nout.
There aren't a hundred and one people.
This vantage place.
It is yours.
It is his, alone.
So, Sod it.
So be it.
So will it.
Those flames are lapping around his perch.
Concentrate on his bloody lot.
Retreat is hopeless.
Take solace in this burning heart.
Dry tears. Fix grin. Walk precarious. Breathe, breathe...Falter not. Pace, stride. Sway perilously.
Mine that burning heart.
A vantage place.
Let it burn.
Sorry this isn't easy.
This incongruous piece willed to be written.
I let it out for a walk.
It said its piece.
It left said and done.
I was taken up with a curious presentation of Bret Victor's shared by Terry Elliot.
I share it here as this is somehow, (or may be later,) I feel, weirdly tied up with it.
There is something here which touches me on a number of intuitive levels.
What is it which attracts us to the tight-rope walker?
Is it pain and joy which draws us out?
Is it pain and joy which beckons us?
I have no idea what that might mean.
I shall leave it here for reflection.
Not sure why.