These lines that pull me forward…these many bright binds that drag my obstinate self to the future – what if they should break? Every one an anchor to tomorrow that drives a small hope, what if they snap, each one gone is more tension on the rest; each one gone and I move slower…until I stop, until I stay…frozen in time and frozen in place – embedded in the banks of the ninth circle.

Unless…

I must take hold of new lines and fix my bait with drive and purpose that I might cast again and again, ahead of myself and take hold of something new…some things new…and move again or even stand and swim into the great expanse on my own power.