She sat, fingers poised above the keyboard, wanting to write – but before the words would come, she had to gather her thoughts from far reaches,
And as she began to funnel words in, out, through, it occurred to her what a risk it was to begin to write:
To face an empty space, a blank future, without of sense of where things were really going or how, knowing that it could turn out well, or turn out poorly, and thinking that she had some control over it all but really, how much,
And it occurred to her that, perhaps, this musing might be metaphor for all things dark and scary,
And that perhaps she should take a deep breath, dive down and spend time exploring those blue-black waters,
But she decided that particular thought would be better served if it were once again tucked back in the drawer for another, more ready, day.