Cevan stands at the foot of the cascading staircase; head tilted up
Its ivory steps and mahogany banister spiral toward,
glowing new; shimmering posibilities
Pristine
He squints, looking at the top, knows there’s only one way to get there
Still, old memories haunt him, pinning him to the floor
Can he take the same staircase, the one he’s been running up for decades now, and instead of blindly chasing himself to the top,
Listen,
Breathe,
Slow down,
And put his needs ahead of the fantasy race that he’s been competing in all his life?
Cevan stares upstairs, craving it, immobilized by the fear of his inability to change.
