The Threshold Paradox

The Threshold Paradox

( The Beginning Rush)

Open the gate, watch the skyline clear, this is the rush, the moment before the fear.

Smell the fresh concrete, the blueprint is drawn, a brand new saga where the weak are gone.

It’s beautiful chaos, the engine ignite, jumping the track on a cold, silent night.

Every nerve screaming, the adrenaline spike, that terrifying bliss when you first grab the mic.

We call it promise, the purity of zero, a clean slate hero ready for the high narrow.

But don’t forget the strain, the cost of the key, starting something big means abandoning the ‘we.’

It's the pressure of potential, the anxiety hum, knowing if you fail, you’ll be the idiot one.

It’s exciting, it’s gorgeous, yeah, I’m loving the view, but the start line is always scary too.

(The Duality)

The double-edged sword of the cycle we ride, where excitement and sorrow can’t ever divide.

One door swings open, the next one is shut, navigating the threshold, stuck in the rut.

The start line is thrilling, the finish line deep, sometimes relief, but sometimes we weep.

The breath in the morning, the fading last light, we chase the new chapter, but mourn yesterday’s fight.

( The Final Drop)

Now let’s talk closure, the dropping of weight, the anchor chain snapping, walking clear of the gate.

That bad habit broken, the lease finally over, rolling out the old car, driving past the clover.

It’s the exhale, the silence after the roar, knowing you don’t have to fight that battle no more.

Sweet liberation, the stress dissolving air, lifting the burden that taught you how to care.

But don’t get it twisted, the end is demanding, the final curtain fall can leave you just standing.

A cleared-out apartment where the echo used to live, what happens when there’s nothing left to give?

It’s the emptiness that hits when the silence is true, saying goodbye to the path that defined you.

That bittersweet sting, the closure is cold, watching the narrative turn dusty and old.

It’s refreshing, it’s necessary, but man, it still hurts, watching the funeral of all of your former worth.

(BAcceptance)

See, the book has to close for the next one to start, both processes leave an indelible mark.

You can’t cheat the rhythm, you can’t pause the spin, the same emotional baggage is carried within.

It’s the same fear of change, just viewed from the rear, the future is uncertain, whether far or near.

The end is a start, the start is a close, that’s just the nature of how everything grows.

The promise of the dawn.

The peace of the dusk.

Both beautiful.

Both terrifying.

Welcome to the in-between.