There is a line. There is always a line. A line to follow, line to walk along, line to stand behind and line to cross or not to cross. There’s the white lines, the picket lines, the fine lines.
Sometimes I think the line chases me. Either I crossed the line some time ago and it has yet to catch up, or maybe I’ve been in front of the line all along. I jump between conclusions depending on the look on their faces. Majority of the time the looks tell me I have crossed the line for sure. Whether it was long ago or at that particular moment, I never can tell.
The line is an illusion. I can draw the line myself with my very own finger, pointing down to the ground and declaring ” I’m drawing the line!” In my mind I imagine I am holding a small piece of white chalk and dragging it along the rubbled bitumen. However, the line is still an illusion and the rules that lay within that line are optional. Some people laugh.
Some people nod with their shoulders slumped and not a single powdery mark on their fingers to show they have ever held the tool to draw the line.
Then there is the one liner. This is my weapon of choice.