Shirtline

Something tugs at my sleeves as I start to venture out, drawing me back.
It feels like fear, but it's not mine; it's fear that I'm taking us into uncharted water without an oar and without a sail and with no life vests and, maybe, without caring that I'm putting us in danger.

I flush in anger at the tug on my sleeve, but silently breathe a sigh of relief that my courage can't be tested, not yet.

There's truth in the fear, you see. There is no plan, no anchor, no lifeline, just an urge to experience what may be real freedom, but may simply be chaos.

Plans are for the weak, I say to myself. But maybe my bravado is an analogy for sloth or indecision or some other flaw that's hidden among the thousands of others.

I could stop the tugging at my sleeve, if I really wanted to. The real fear, though, is of taking off my shirt.