A Sacrifice at The Precipice

I feel like I’m teetering, in a moment of unrest. At the edge of a precipice, higher than Everest. The air is fresh, fragrant, yet oh so cold. It excites and stings at the same time, like a jumpscare to the bold. The adrenaline hits, but you can laugh it off and vent. Perhaps a more accurate comparison, however, would be a large personal event. Change is impending, an irreversible prophecy, real as this chasm. It’s not inherently negative, but so much to fathom. It leaves you with that bubbly feeling. A bit excited, a bit nauseous, unsure if it’s harming or healing.

A long fall awaits just over the edge, that’s assured. I cannot gauge how severe, for the ground is obscured. It’s a foggy, shadowy veil of pure uncertainty. I may catch a glimpse, but never enough to know definitely. There could be water down there, that may break the fall. There could be jagged spires, forming an inescapable thrall. I know whatever falls likely won’t be seen again, that is the gist. Just like the water and spires that may or may not exist. That murk could claim any offering in the same way. Therefore, I try to hold tight and not let my vision stray.

But I am very guilty, for that I cannot lie. Sometimes I bring offerings to the peak, up high. Things I hold dear, packaged with love and selfhood. You could call them my children, you really could. I engage like a barbaric practice or satanic pledge. I’ve held them—a sacrifice—over the edge. My fingers would twitch with anticipation, awaiting my choice. I could hear them begging for mercy—or was that my own inner-voice? Sometimes I let go, sometimes I just can’t. Every time I wonder; what am I trying to appease, and can I still recant?

I don’t know the answer to the riddle, I don’t have the key. Perhaps I am appeasing something inside me. A demon of sorts, knocking at my mental walls. Perhaps, contrarily, I am appeasing others’ calls. Who, I don’t know, but I can feel them pry. As I stand here again and again, I try to justify. For you see, these children are deeply flawed, there is no fixing it. I have already tried for so long, my fingers are numb and teeth still grit. Day, by week, by month, by year, by decade strong. I still see mistakes—perhaps these children were the mistake all along.

But no, this darkness is not all that I am, it has not set. It is strong within me, but a light shines yet. One of mercy, telling me to bring them back, don’t give into woe. Instead, hold tight, and never let them go. If I were to lose my grip, I would regret it forever. So I spare them from the murk, my will I sever. I must covet them, until time unravels us in expiration. I grasp at the reasons; for flaws are inherent, a part of all creation. It will not change that these children are cherished. If not by others, then by me, who could not see them perish.

But something is amiss, as I covet all these children so dear. A weight pulls at my very being, descending into fear. First in my body, draining my strength, my resolution. Then in my brain, darkening and blinding my vision. Finally, the worst is in my heart, a plague of disappointment and apathy. Because I know they deserve better than this slow atrophy. I work as hard as I can, but the obstacles grow larger, numerous, combative. I’m loath to admit, I don’t have much more to give. Yet the children have already withered, so frail and incomplete, no unique voice. I wonder, will I have to make a choice?

With light and darkness swirling inside, I return to the precipice with woe. I feel its icy chill again; heavens unexplored above, depths uncharted below. I pick the weakest ones first, so typical of nature. I let them hang over the edge, the wind cutting like a razor. I feel their eyes on me, wondering if I will truly let go. I honestly don’t know—have I sunk so low? My precious creations, whom I would bless. Like God made man, I made them in my likeness. I built them with shards of myself, but here I stand with no more to give. Here I stand with their world in my grip, and no time to forgive.

I am not a heartless person, make no mistake. Of course they’re not truly children, but they are entities that I've made, they’re not fake. Through love and hate, and everything in-between, every spark. They are a part of me—good and bad, light and dark. Their mark runs so much deeper than my skin. I do love them as others love their kin. I don’t take their fate lightly, this precious sort. But at this stage, they are all on life-support. Their plugs run into my chest, and I cannot power one more without unplugging another. I know if I try, I will short-circuit and see them all suffer.

For my own sake and theirs, I have to pull some plugs, let the lifelines cease. So I finally unclench my fingers, my grip I release. One, two, three—they fall into the depths of the murk expanding. It’s a very long drop with a soundless landing. Maybe they hit water, and will climb back in time. Maybe that’s false hope and they’re truly gone, past their prime. At the edge, I stand for a long moment. I feel tears flowing, regrets gnawing, like they were really mine and present. My kin, my blood, a part of me. But I know, and I have to accept that I cannot salvage the entirety.