Dear, Barnacle Goose
Standing at the precipice, staring down a four-hundred-foot cliff. Hope, redemption, and life live down there. It’s visible from the barrenness here amongst the rocks of your existence. This mountaintop, once scaled for safety, nurturing, and protection, now absent sustenance. Consciousness of danger locks your shuffling feet.
Doubt overwhelms, convincing you that it’s safer here. Instinct bellows otherwise. Stagnation equals death, you must move, or face living void of purpose. Every fiber in your body knows what you must do. Your heart is the leader here, regardless of what your mind says. Your spirit was born to fly, even now, without wings. You know you must move, life awaits you. You step forward. It’s your turn to fall four hundred feet, so you can fly.