Everyone else wouldn't take so much time to decide whether to jump or not. They would think about it for a little while, and then jump with their parachute ready.
But not me.
It takes me forever to find the perfect cliff to stand on, and then it would take me what-feels-to-be-a-decade to observe the valley down there. I would consider every possibility, every part of the valley I like and don't like. I would contemplate, contemplate, and contemplate. Then I would stand on the edge, peeking down, observing again while trying hard to keep both my feet steady.
Everyone else is already jumping - some with their parachute open, steadily and calmly going down.
But I would still be standing on the edge of the cliff, thinking once again if I would really jump down there.
And when I finally do, I don't jump. I plunge. Fast. Head first. With no parachute on my back. It's either being caught or falling hard. It's always like that. And it's always the latter for me - so far, at least. And it's not that I can't find my way up to the top of the mountain again. I would, eventually. I always have. But climbing up is just exhausting and time-consuming and... have I said exhausting?
That's why I hope that at least this time I'd jump - plunge - to finally be caught with open arms. It doesn't really matter if we both would later have to roll down for some miles because of the weight and the speed and the gravity. Hell, I would love to roll together with arms around each other... or better, with his arms around me. But please, catch me this time. Because falling hard hurts. And climbing back up alone is exhausting.
