My vocabulary is school children playing: somersaults and hopscotch, so I can skip from seemingly erudite (oh the deception!) to utterly juvenile in one bounding leap of little feet or slide right down to the devilish and scrape my small behind on the scorching slope. And maybe my fluid imagination vexes me because it wants similarly to keep venturing on unknown roads, to spelunk mysterious caverns. With one hand I would stroke the heavens and with the other plumb the sinister bogs deep below me.
And were there a parental figure in the mix, I would no doubt have a gentle hand turning me around before I bounded in and out of trouble; I'm just no longer ignorant, and it irks me into an interminable tantrum. Now my forays into forbidden forests betray not only the wonders of discovery but the perils of awakening.
I'm amazed by the dichotomy of scripture, that we should walk the infinite by a narrow road.