poem
Outside the Box
Being inside the box was comfortable – warm and cosy. We curled up with cushions of routine, wadded with words, blanketed by books, swaddled in certainties. A bit stuffy perhaps, and we sometimes felt cramped, but never mind, we were so used to it that it felt normal – and, as I said, comfortable.
Out here we are exposed, and cold winds blow. We need to hold on tight, keep our eyes open for sudden snow squalls, hidden crevasses. It’s a precarious existence now – but here we can move and breathe, see clear to the far horizon.
And if we come to a cliff, we know we can step off it into empty air, trusting it to bear us up. We have no fear of falling.
Alan Maley Nagoya, November 2010
Being inside the box was comfortable – warm and cosy. We curled up with cushions of routine, wadded with words, blanketed by books, swaddled in certainties. A bit stuffy perhaps, and we sometimes felt cramped, but never mind, we were so used to it that it felt normal – and, as I said, comfortable.
Out here we are exposed, and cold winds blow. We need to hold on tight, keep our eyes open for sudden snow squalls, hidden crevasses. It’s a precarious existence now – but here we can move and breathe, see clear to the far horizon.
And if we come to a cliff, we know we can step off it into empty air, trusting it to bear us up. We have no fear of falling.
Alan Maley Nagoya, November 2010
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