On the Edge You Hear “You Can’t Do This.”

On the edge you hear, “You can’t do this.” And it’s right.

The you you think you are could never break through, could never stretch past the place where you always stop.

You could fawn, you could fight, pendulum between false strength and searching eyes, but to pierce that membrane? No. Not that you.

Every old fear rises up, gripping you with instinct, the deep animal terror of exile, of death. It says: You can’t. You can’t.

But then, beyond the trembling, light cracks through, a thread pulls you.

It’s not the you you’ve held to, but the whole of you—the completeness, vast, the unknown, the unbreakable.