At the door, looking on.

I feel as though I stand under the lintel of a door. One step will take me through or back. How long can one stand without making a choice? Ahead: the unknown, spread wide and shapeless before me. Behind: the familiar lines of the past, familiar in the good and the bad. 

All life distills to taking a step, but either step is a risk. And standing still only heightens the discomfort. Even as I try to avoid making the wrong choice, I make it continuously -- for not deciding is the only wrong choice.