At first glance, it appears to be akin to a nameless storm of such power that it whites out everything. Thoughts, half-formed and half-believed, mutants of raw emotion and learned behavior, whip around and bite at my consciousness - only ever demonstrating their genuine nature in brief glimpses that are lifted from their place and blown away, fading into the nothingness like a sand castle in a hurricane.
I am subject to the whimsy of a soul too aware, too hungry, too big for its body, of a consciousness with a potential not yet realized. In the wind tunnel of my thoughts, I am the center of the storm but all things must move through me; I am pummeled by my own inadequacy, my own turbulent heart, the ever-present threat of a skeletal subterfuge.
A thousand ghosts linger behind my eyes, lives unlived and lives already past, lives that could never be, prodding me into the dark recesses of my thoughts like spokes with molten tips; whispering that the edge is not really the edge; that the fog simply disguises that the path goes on forever.
When the storm dies down and the misty unknown is replaced with fields of agony or valleys of such pristine joy that it is nearly blinding, the ghosts clock out and the new shift begins. It is not the edge that they are egging me toward, but the extremes of the atmosphere.
Gravity, they say, cannot hold me down. I am a creature of immaculate design, they whisper, their promises like a hundred needles sinking into my spine all at once. But I know there is no more room in the clouds, that my body must stay on the ground.
Still, my eyes twist upward and for an instant I am not my body, I am not this collection of organs and tissue, of blood and marrow and ligaments. I am more. I am curiosity, I am fury, I am the single, isolated, cold moment of clarity before reality splinters and everything changes.