Do not look down. They always say that. As if the abyss were something one could ignore. I was given a rope, a height, a silence and a door. No map beneath my fingers. No promise from the floor. The city lay below me like a mouth that would not speak. And the wind came dressed as counsel every day of every week. It said: lean right, there is safety. It said: lean left, there is grace. But I had seen too many angels lose direction in the chase. So I fixed my eyes on nothing but the far and narrow line. Not the crowd, not the weather, not the hands that were not mine. I am the tightrope walker. I do not get to fall. Not to the right, not to the left, not beautifully at all. I am the tightrope walker. One breath. One thread. One sky. I was not asked to conquer height. I was asked to cross the wire alive. There are people who will call you coward, saint, or fool. They will measure your trembling with a very steady rule. Some will shout: you must be braver. Some will whisper: you must bend. But the rope does not discuss itself. It only has an end. And every step is honest in a way that speeches lack. You cannot bribe the empty air. You cannot charm it back. So I carry my small balance, my ridiculous human pole, with the left hand full of memory and the right hand full of soul. I am the tightrope walker. I do not get to fall. Not to the right, not to the left, not nobly at all. I am the tightrope walker. One breath. One thread. One sky. I was not asked to conquer height. I was asked to cross the wire alive. Listen. Balance is not peace. Balance is work. It is the private labour of not becoming your fear. A man may fall from pride. A man may fall from shame. The abyss accepts both with excellent manners and no preference for names. So I keep walking. I have loved the easy leaning. I have wanted to be sure. I have prayed for wider bridges and a cleaner, kinder cure. But the soul was not designed as a comfortable machine. It is more like a candle being carried through a dream. If I reach the other ending, do not say I had no doubt. Say I heard the dark below me and still kept breathing out. I am the tightrope walker. I do not get to fall. Not to the right, not to the left, not gloriously at all. I am the tightrope walker. One breath. One thread. One sky. I was not asked to conquer fear. I was asked to pass through it alive. I am the tightrope walker. The end is not a crown. It is simply one more footstep that refuses to look down. Do not look down. They always say that. But I have looked. And still I go.
