I have always imagined this line that serves as our breaking point as people. When crossed, we lose all regard we have including warmth, and we wind up in a sunken place where tenderness is not possible.

I have always imagined a lane where we all stand. The distance we have from the line may be distinct and relative to the individual and the circumstances surrounding us. And yet here we are, perpetually tried and pushed until, in small but incremental stages, one foot in front of the other, we get near the line, step over, cross it, and become someone else: a shadow of our past selves, a portion of what we used to be but no longer, an individual capable of mutilating the world without feeling any remorse at the sight of the wreckage. Sometimes, by some sleight of chance, we become someone better and we call that miracle.

I imagine myself standing less than an inch away from that line, arms stretched in limbo, feet buried in deluge, persistently rammed forward by events and contingencies. I am at this point in life where I’m trying to decide whether to cross that line and give in, or to abandon the entire lane altogether.