Brayden Billington - January 4, 2023
Heights are scary, but not the kind you’re thinking of. The wavering building’s top, giving a momentary shudder in the wind, may inspire fear in the bravest of men, sure—but moreover deplored is the seeping, creeping trepidation in the mind’s back-end of a good time’s threat of expiration.
“The bright starry lights of high-city nights above streetlights, those shiny irises of yours will no longer ignite,” sighs my mind’s worriedly-wired, whirring cogs. “With friends you’ll lose touch when comes the fall; no sight will be given in morrow-morning’s dewly-dense, ground-bound fog— fair-weathered, aren’t they? After all, you could never truly stay at such a Height.”
Perhaps the spoken-of toppling is preordained and not, in fact, feigned– I must take it in stride. I’ve been down there before… been battered, and bored, both by my own brain and the dreadful, dissonant din of that lowest plane—of course, all created, all conducted, all orchestrated by my own self-scorn. Despite the conjecture, I’ve assembled a fresher architecture with which to stand at this Height where billowing pillows of vanilla cloud briskly breeze by, as if to assure naught descent from My Sky.
Fair friends in high places, remain you the flood-love which gushes my irises with starry nighttime life-blood again—for in foggy haze and crumbling concrete do you all remain. Need I a hand for balance, I’ll set you in my sights—betwixt the fog and space lies our lovely, acting state of grace… perhaps in time, and with your words, I’ll learn an unfazedness for these Heights.