Crease

Edges, outlines, shadows, walls. These things contain us. Every fibre of our being has an edge -  a malleable, pliable edge.  Crooked, jagged, soft, torn - like stitches on a toddler's teddybear, they are stretched to welcome us, to allow our imperfections, our fragility, our assets. The fleshy bits in the middle are what determine that which we are made of, our "recipe," our scarred map from birth until now. You only get one map and eventually the bricks run out, the expressway closes for repairs. Make the most of the getting there. Expand and fold and leap and fly and run on like this sentence and you will have licked the plate clean. Sure no longer. Gone astray. Must begin again. Edges are Lady Gaga, edges are the Grand Canyon, they are the scary place, they are the turning point, they are a falling off point, a 13th birthday, a 30th birthday, a parade in a snowstorm, a perforated divorce settlement, the hook in "Whole Lotta Love," the excess, the stuff that rots, the stuff you keep around. Edges are deceivingly easy to identify. You are bound by nothing. Let nothing house you, let nobody strap you to a sticking point. Take the edge off. Massage yourself. Smoke reefer. Go for a walk. Talk to God. Grow and bend in a way that only putty can. Remind yourself what you are capable of and go get it. Talk yourself out of quitting. Holy fucking motivational rant. These are overrated. Just headbang it out, or sleep it off or whatever works. Stop taking that candy from the jar and replenish it with...wait, like candy, you are sweet! You are everything someone else longs to be. Say I love you and I will have my love requited. Say I love you and I will no longer need to sing lullabies.