Highlevel

I hate bridges.

I hate the moment when my car leaves the asphalt and the sound earth beneath it, and soars up into the cradle of steel cables and concrete. Eyes wide over white knuckles, I hold my breath until I land smoothly on the other side, a slight bounce as my truck dismounts the last steel hinge. I know I’ll always reach the other side, but those few minutes in the sky steal the air from my lungs and fill my with fear.

The thing is, the fear is a comfort. If fear is the icy pain of conceivable truth, then anxiety is an infection of the most believable lies. In those moments on the bridge, I am filled with the possibility of true fear, and it burns away the dull bite of the constant anxiety. I am momentarily grateful for the fear, even for the bridge that gives me relief.

I hate the bridge, but I am also grateful for it.

 

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