Many have walked this path before me, and yet the corpses are so few,
The ones that lie before me, are warnings painted a crimson hue,
Warnings that most before me found wise enough to heed,
This only made me more curious on where this path would lead.
Everyone climbs this peak often in their lifetime,
But reaching the top only signals half-time,
I look down below, and corpses line the valley,
And across the chasm, no echo answers my rally.
Turning back like many fellow travellers is so tempting,
And yet there is also this allure of alone attempting,
I am advised that the best course would be to return,
And that convinces me, this will finally be my turn.
The boundary is marked, with jagged edges of doubt,
That the unknown keeps daring me flout,
Even the courage I need, I need to borrow,
Knowing well it could all lead to more sorrow.
Tales of those who have crossed are many,
But ones of those who returned, there aren’t any,
So I figure it is time I wrote my own tale,
That someone in the future can use, to regale.
Fear is the boundary wall, of the world I now know,
Lifelong, it has gleefully feasted on my every new no,
Just beyond it, lie realms my perception would never go,
I leap, before I can hear it repeat, “I told you so”.
This is one for the Mirror, being a reflection on many of the moments before inflection points in my life. The first line is my homage to Anand Bakshi.