I can remember a time when morality was defined by a thick dark line. I can remember days as a small child standing on the edge, slowly nudging myself forward until just the tips of my toes were touching it. A balancing act high in the air. I can remember too how it felt to slip. How fast the words rush past your ears as you plummet.
The earth was hard, that I remember very well.
What I don't remember is the first time I kneeled before the line and really looked at it, frayed in parts and soft to the touch. I choose not to. I store this memory somewhere between the thrill of claiming new ground and a fascination for the line itself.
What if I move it?
Can it be curved?
Does it work in pink?
Is it solid, liquid or gas?
The answer, is yes. Morality is what we ask it to be, and the line that defines it a self inflicted guide to the rest of our lives. A dangerous, thrilling adventure into who we think we are, and who we know we're not. Every mark leaves it's trace, but what do lines speak of morality when we can no longer see through our own lack of conviction? When memory becomes boxed with responsibility and left to gather dust on the outskirts of what was once right, and once wrong?
Perhaps it's time to find a new challenge. To get out the old dusty and sweep up the smudge, unbox the child and find there a beautiful, dark black marker. Draw it with conviction. This is right. This is wrong. This is how I fall.
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