treading

treading carefully, all the time; treading treading treading like on an ice too thin to be completely relied on. treading with a tension in her muscles and with a shallow, fast breathing; like every second the next one could be the last one, but maybe if she was light enough, careful enough, maybe then the second after the next one would come as well. maybe, if she just placed her foot in a right way and kept herself composed and would be in the way she thought she ought to be, maybe then she would succeed; maybe then the ice would be thicker and she would no longer have to be afraid of it giving in.

and yet the ice never got thicker and she continued to tread with caution, never knowing entirely how to be, how to place the next step; there was always something that went awry. the endless uncertainty and giving up the concept of self for the sake of something she no longer had a clear vision of; but by now it was too late to start looking for it, and instead she continued to the direction she thought that something once had been in, slowly and awkwardly and excruciatingly careful. because what else was there, now that she had came this far on an ice this thin? even if she were to turn around the way back was lost.

so the only way was forward then, and the only way of being was the way that had been already decided.