It seems life is easier if you stay away from the edges of the pattern. It is best just to stay stuffed between the lines, hiding in the certainty of definition that lies there. Somedays though one just snaps, and bolts for the undefined open spaces, spewing emotional chaos in one’s wake. Somedays I wish I could decide which way of being is best. Dwelling inside the lines one can be gracious, restrained like the pattern, like the cornfield that bows before the wind, to rise again in golden splendour. But outside, oh outside is cool moonlit freedom and the fury of wind lashed hair. And the risk of being broken.