Sometimes it’s razor sharp, tender to touch. Sometimes from the dark, from the deep it shows itself, the edge.
From the edge, on it, uncertain, something like despair. You reach out, call out, searching, hoping for relief. The mind chases, words racing in, filling every space.
The rubbing, grinding, down to an edge, leaving you unsure of yourself, uncertain. Surely you can find your way through, out somehow, not giving it, not giving up. Timeless, knowing the answer, getting these as before.
Scribble down, the babble down, then simply clear; the mind, in the dark, back from the edge. Respect it, don’t fear it, just know it, go along again. Go along with it again.