Everyone wants to be at the center of attention, but I always look towards the edge, the periphery. People are more real out there, without an audience to perform for.
That’s where the really fascinating stuff is taking place.
At the Edge
I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center. . . . . . ~ Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. . . . . . ~ Hunter S. Thompson You Are Standing at the Edge of the Woods You are standing at the edge of the woods at twilight when something begins to sing, like a waterfall pouring down through the leaves. It is the thrush. And you are just sinking down into your thoughts, taking in the sweetness of it—those chords, those pursed twirls—when you hear out of the same twilight the wildest red outcry. It pitches itself forward, it flails and scabs all the surrounding space with such authority you can’t tell whether it is crying out on the scarp of victory, with its hooked foot dabbed into some creature that now with snapped spine lies on the earth—or whether it is such a struck body itself, saying goodbye. The thrush is silent then, or perhaps has flown away. The dark grows darker. The moon, in its shining white blouse, rises. And whatever that wild cry was it will always remain a mystery you have to go home now and live with, sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence, for the rest of your life. . . . . .~ Mary Oliver
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