Acceptable risk
◊ There's a strange feeling of freedom when the things that are important to you start to crumble. When your feet are no longer rooted to the ground, it feels like flying.
But I can't tell what kind of flight it is. It could be like catching a wave or taking a bike down the steepest part of a trail, like being swept up in movement that you can barely, just barely, control. That noise in my head could be the crash of surf, the crunch of bike tires, the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
But it could also be the rattle of loose gravel sliding down a hillside, or the hiss of water as the car's tires lose their grip and start to glide across wet cement.
I have always shrugged off the threat of pain as acceptable risk. "If it weren't dangerous, I wouldn't be interested," I say. Anything worthwhile is a gamble, I say. When you lose, you pay with snapped bones, head injuries, heartbreak — whatever the dealer trades in.
The truth is, I've never broken a bone before. I fractured a finger playing basketball once and it hurt like hell, and that was just a hairline fracture that barely showed up on the x-ray. I have no idea what acceptable risk actually means.
I guess we all find out, sooner or later.