Why the cliff’s edge? Because the contemplation of death from an armchair is a cheat. I stand physically alone upon this literal precipice. The expanse of water to the horizon inspires my soul just as the 18th-century poets, whose enlightenment looked upon impossible physicality as the block that whetted the edge of their ability; I too aspire to to their aspirations.
The sound of such a mighty force of water and gravity upon the shoreline relaxes the tension across my shoulders inexplicably, but the jagged rocks below, visible because of the height and abruptness of the drop, causes my heart to pound. My blood surges to my fingertips and I totter upon the edge, not wanting the pain, not wanting the end of my known existence and yet upon the edge, regardless.
No, I have no unfaithful lover nor am I being forced into distasteful existence; I am contemplating my death. Suicide? No. Even as I weave upon this edge, I cannot force my foot forward to test my ideas of continuance.
The whine of my little dog, well back from the edge, brings me out of my own thoughts. I step back, catch my heel upon a thick piece of turf and stumble. I cry out and my inner organs sink into watery fear. The only earth to catch my forward fall is the jagged and rocky strip of land that meets the sea far below.
Such a comfortable existence the lady had are the murmurs of neighbors, who scurry about with their daily and mundane tasks. Her beauty they will say was unique and even a reality to the contemplative man. Why go to that damned cliff’s edge, why take the chance that so many warned her against?
Instinctively? Yes, with a will to live I twist and grasp at the long shaggy turf while my feet entangled, kick against the air as if that element may solidify in pity toward my plight. As I dig my fingers into the grass and hear the growl and whine of my little rat terrier, I laugh even as my hip and waist slide over the edge. The warm, light, wool walking skirt wraps around my calves and the pointed tips of my walking boots slam painfully into the crumbling cliff face. Still laughing, I dig my fingers into the turf which loosens from the ground. Scrambling for a small foothold, but hampered by my clothes, the weight of my body works against the desire of my mind.
I stop the struggle and look into the wide, fearful eyes of my little white dog. There is a moment when I know both of us think the same thing… what will he do without me?
Ridiculous, isn’t it? Did Adam and Eve despair about the garden when the angel with the flaming sword stood before the entrance of their once quiet domain? What a damnable question to ask when what they wanted was their own empire.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp at the canine face which only knows loyalty and yaps and whines knowing its world has now changed.