They called it “The Footbridge of Doom” because whoever crossed it, never returned. Every person stalled at the broken plank, even those who started out running, they at least gave a pause. Yet, for some, it had an unendurable lure – you could go mad or cross the footbridge and who knows what happened then?
It wasn’t until fate had me passing the footbridge on my daily commute that I started to get the urge. I can only say that once the idea of crossing was in my mind, I could never stop thinking of it, it was always lurking there in the corner of every idea and punctuating every thought. My life grew more dissatisfying and I could not help but wonder what promises were waiting for me on the other side. I had no reason to stay. Fear was my only anchor.
I started to hear whispers all around me, in the wind and from passing strangers in my dreams. I could not hear their words, only that they were whispering. The wind was the only one who had crossed the footbridge and still lived to tell me about it. Now, I stand here, facing the footbridge. People are watching me like I am about to plunge to my death.
“Let me cross, let me cross. I beg you to let me cross!” I plead. My own voice whispers gently, “You need not beg. Go, if you are willing.”