It creeps up on us in the dark when the ghosts blink by. Traces like faint breath collapsing inside itself.
We listen only to the sound of Truth. Guided by the Light that the dark can’t find its way. Some shadows themselves have shadows. Eyes been closed so long the lock tightens; the braille freezes touch.
We can’t learn our way through. Can’t think about the thoughts threatening to tell us more of what it fears.
We can only follow again the Light. Doors open to our walking, and we step through in order to taste the touch of God.
This is the way of the path, the path of the way where the journey meets itself there on the inside where all is known. That is the precipice. It dangles there from the edge where you lean in waiting for flight.
It is the source, the well that reaches a depth never before explored, that we fall into. The net has always been.