Dangerous and Alive: One

They walk fast. He shuffles behind her at an angle as she looks back in threshold disgust. It is cold. It is late afternoon, or early evening, or whatever the hell you want it to be. I don’t know. I see them walk past the front window of the Denver Bicycle Cafe. I have come here looking for calm and solitude away from my mind and anger and the weight I have felt all week. They walk past as I try to find in them a reason or a passion to write about in this moment. The black ink of my pen has pretty much always offered me an easy breath, even a few, in a world that is choppy and uncertain. The pages of my pocket sized notebooks are always within reach and give me a world where I have no pain, where I have transcended fear and self doubt, where I am happy. And the goal is that some day I can grasp those hopes and thus live within the victories I write about on those pages. This place in which I write, these words that you read, will tell the journey of that mountain, that summit which I pursue. You can follow along and see the winds of the high peaks and hear the cracking of the rocks below my boots. But I do not wish for you to join me. Watch me along the incline and the spines of the ridges I follow. I have picked the most dangerous route, I wished for it in my dreams. And now I am here; battered by cold and change and past and future. I am pulled backwards by the gravity and anxieties of earth. I am pressed upon from above by the weight and expectations of heaven and the potential glories of a well-lived mortal life. I am within the most dangerous pitch and yet here I am, alive. I will continue this pursuit and continuously eye the summit that I chose many years ago. I will live this life to my best ability, however dangerous it may be. I am dangerous. I am alive.