It’s a fine line, that horizon. The sunset pushes past it so quietly, almost absently. It promises both more, an unknown beyond, and an end, a finish to the day, a limitation on how far we see. The ocean rises to meet it and is turned back, and in retaliation it swallows the clouds and the sun, sucks the light and color from the sky and leaves only the crumbs of stars, and the moon until it too tires and falls to the ground.
We travel to meet it but are never greeted. We climb mountains to find it, and simply find it has leapt to the next mountain top, taunting us with a reach too far. And yet we never tire of the chase. We are never disappointed. If anything, we are encouraged, we keep playing its game as a child blissfully ignores the futility of a game that cannot be won. We never cross that line, and we never will, but we still reach for it, the hard, inked outline that encircles everything we know, the outline colored in by each thing we find inside it. Each our own personal coloring book, published by the horizon and left in our hands to fill its pages.
It’s a fine line, that horizon. But it lives for our defiance of it.
What was this sensation? Falling? It had that peculiar lack of control, that sense of motion and speed, but none of the jarring lurch in the pit of your stomach, the expression of instinct in a way that tensed your body and prepared it for impact. But there was no impact, no rushing floor, and no fear. Just the momentary panic of assessing the unknown and unrecognizable and finding a frame of reference for it, something to neatly categorize and label so it could be shelved among common experiences to be found again later.
But this was new. This got an empty shelf to itself, way off in the corner reserved for things that would either eventually need their own wing or would get buried under a pile of scattered memories left to be frantically dug up some late afternoon when the whole shelf was kicked over by the smell of mushroom soup and old leather. There wasn’t even anything frantic to it, nothing clawing to be brought under control, just a restless curiosity. It reeked of inevitability. Was it even a recent feeling? How long had it been there? Was it always around, quietly overshadowed by the persistent pummeling of experiences that lined up demanding to be acknowledged and tended to? Maybe it had been there from the beginning, just forgotten.
There was honestly no telling at this point. There wasn’t even a lot to be done about it. It was clearly getting at something, a tugging at the mental sleeve, but it wasn’t about to give any hints. It just had to be seen when it happened.