Playing With Shroedinger's Cat

Living between worlds is titillatingly exhausting. A steady foot on one side of this fissure and the second one, trembling on the other, leaves a possibility for the ground to split wide open between my unsteady legs. I imagine that would be quite a pain in my ass. It's good that I'm not of the male persuasion, precious cargo left dangling too loose and flying free.

My current state of Half is rendering me frigid. I'm immobilized, waiting for the invitation to either cross over the crack, or bring my foot back to the side I started on before easing into that step. It's all about Decisions and they're not entirely mine.

A confession would include the fact that I really did notice the jagged edge of the crack just before stepping right over, and pushed away thoughts as to how I might make my way back if it began to yawn. It seems that from the time I placed that foot out there and let the breeze of the other side stroke its dirty fingers over my calf, I wanted to feel more. The grainy roughness in the tease of that touch is too heady to feel just once. Pulsing, it rasped across what's been lightly sleeping and awakened the black chasm of Want that always, always sits right below the thin film of my Contentment.

If I hold out my hand, will Joy reach out to lick my fingertips or will it grab me by the wrist and push hard into me before swallowing me whole.

I want to be fucking consumed.