I worry. I feel a pending Crash and Burn, and it is not the season. It is coming, as inevitable as the tides. It hovers over me like a heavily loaded slope of snow, waiting for any sudden noise to release the avalanche, the tumbling mass, a white out, painful, tumbling, crashing, chaotic. I can sense it. And pray to the gods that there is silence, calm, quiet, no sudden outbursts or explosions to release that leading edge, freeing the entire mountainside to come and consume me, swallow me whole, bury me in the cold, white nothingness.The foreboding. All the signs are there, if one knows how to read them. I have had ample experience in reading the telltale signs, far too much experience.
There is a slight advantage to knowing the earmarks of an imminent crash, the foreknowledge lets me take precautions, take certain measures to lessen my impact with the earth. I know what to do, though it is much like waiting in a bunker for the bombs to land and praying that there is not an calamitous direct hit. It is the best I can do.
Now all I can do is wait, hope for calm, hope for quiet. I flex my fingers, wipe perspiration from my palms and hold on for dear life. I cannot trust autopilot with this one. The controls are in my hands. Maybe I can hope for a controlled crash. They say any landing you can walk away from is a good landing. I just want to be able to walk away.