There is a ledge on which I walk.

It stands about a foot or so off the ground. It is made of brick.

To its left, shards of glass. To its right, brain damage.

Upon first stepping onto the ledge: pure terror. Each step: anguish.

Each step, further increasing the chances I would fall.

And I knew I would fall.

Of course I would fall.

Over a long enough period of time, every possible occurrence comes to pass. My fall was unavoidable. Of course I would fall.

A mantra:

"You are going to fall."

"You are going to fall."

"You are going to fall, and when you fall, it will fucking hurt, but you cannot allow that fact to prevent you from taking the next step."

It was the only manner by which I could compel myself to continue walking. I had to know that I would fall. I had to believe.

Each step: anguish.

Each step, further increasing the probability that the next step would be the one to rip it all away, to inflict all of the inescapable pain.

But I didn't fall.

And I made it to the end of the ledge, and I turned around and walked back. And again. And again. And I continued to not fall.

And I knew I would fall; but it kept not happening. I could walk back and forth across the ledge dozens of times, hundreds of times, always assured in the inevitability of the apocalypse; but it never came to pass.



Why?
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