meet me on the equinox
meet me halfway
I have never been cave diving. I've watched videos and movies and read books and stories, and once spoke with a girl who stated that she can squeeze through anything her cheekbones can get through. That is a horrifying thought to me. The movies are stunning, and the idea is fascinating. I would never do it in my life, and sometimes just the thought of it is enough to stop me breathing for a moment.
When cave divers are...cave diving, there is a particular rule of engagement that they do not break under any circumstances. When they have used one third of the oxygen in their tank, they have to turn around. No matter where they are or what they're looking at, no matter that you have been following that previosuly-believed-to-be-extinct aquatic wonder for two miles, no matter that you are thirty feet from the entrance to a space that no human being has seen in the history of the Universe, you have to go back when you have used one third of your oxygen. Not one half. This is because regardless of what you encountered on the way there, you have no idea what's waiting for you on the way back.
You have no idea. There is no possible way for you to know that the path you cleared for yourself in order to reach the point you're at will still be available to you when you abandon your forward progress. The tunnels that were clear of obstacles when you set out on your journey may be solid walls of rock when you encounter them on your return. That wall of plant life that you gasped over on your way down may be a a clutching, grasping bastion with your death written in its pretty, pretty pages. You just can't possibly know what the road out is going to look like, so in order to increase your odds of surviving it you must assume that you will expend twice as much of your reserves retreating as you did advancing. You need to know that you will survive the way out, even if it means you leave that thing you want before you're ready by half.
I know that I'm not ready to give up chasing the thing that I want. I'm not. I don't think it's necessary, and I don't think it's time. I would swim toward that thing until I died, though, because self-preservation has never been my strong suit. Historically. If I have any air left I will spend it in the pursuit of this thing, and then I'll die. Which is why I am not, this time, and high five to all of us that are making that decision. You have to stop while you can. You have to. Your reserves have reached that mark, and you still have to get back to where you can breathe on your own. You don't know what it's going to be like. You don't know what's waiting for you, ahead of you in the unfamiliar landscape that you just, just came through. Because it's going to be different on the way out than it was on the way in. The things you loved will eat your brain. The songs you adored will steal your heart. The places you made your own will be your enemies and you don't know how long that's going to last, how long it will take until you can safely see your way out. Because even seeing your way out is not enough. You have to make it, you have to be sure, and you have to have sufficient reserves stored before you can go back looking for that fish, for that room, for that thing you wanted so badly that almost killed you. You have to wait.
I have never been cave diving. I've watched videos and movies and read books and stories, and once spoke with a girl who stated that she can squeeze through anything her cheekbones can get through. That is a horrifying thought to me. The movies are stunning, and the idea is fascinating. I would never do it in my life, and sometimes just the thought of it is enough to stop me breathing for a moment.
When cave divers are...cave diving, there is a particular rule of engagement that they do not break under any circumstances. When they have used one third of the oxygen in their tank, they have to turn around. No matter where they are or what they're looking at, no matter that you have been following that previosuly-believed-to-be-extinct aquatic wonder for two miles, no matter that you are thirty feet from the entrance to a space that no human being has seen in the history of the Universe, you have to go back when you have used one third of your oxygen. Not one half. This is because regardless of what you encountered on the way there, you have no idea what's waiting for you on the way back.
You have no idea. There is no possible way for you to know that the path you cleared for yourself in order to reach the point you're at will still be available to you when you abandon your forward progress. The tunnels that were clear of obstacles when you set out on your journey may be solid walls of rock when you encounter them on your return. That wall of plant life that you gasped over on your way down may be a a clutching, grasping bastion with your death written in its pretty, pretty pages. You just can't possibly know what the road out is going to look like, so in order to increase your odds of surviving it you must assume that you will expend twice as much of your reserves retreating as you did advancing. You need to know that you will survive the way out, even if it means you leave that thing you want before you're ready by half.
I know that I'm not ready to give up chasing the thing that I want. I'm not. I don't think it's necessary, and I don't think it's time. I would swim toward that thing until I died, though, because self-preservation has never been my strong suit. Historically. If I have any air left I will spend it in the pursuit of this thing, and then I'll die. Which is why I am not, this time, and high five to all of us that are making that decision. You have to stop while you can. You have to. Your reserves have reached that mark, and you still have to get back to where you can breathe on your own. You don't know what it's going to be like. You don't know what's waiting for you, ahead of you in the unfamiliar landscape that you just, just came through. Because it's going to be different on the way out than it was on the way in. The things you loved will eat your brain. The songs you adored will steal your heart. The places you made your own will be your enemies and you don't know how long that's going to last, how long it will take until you can safely see your way out. Because even seeing your way out is not enough. You have to make it, you have to be sure, and you have to have sufficient reserves stored before you can go back looking for that fish, for that room, for that thing you wanted so badly that almost killed you. You have to wait.
posted by machine central at 12:02 PM
3 comments
