"Midnight" Part 6

These stairs and I tend to embrace a love and hate relationship. 

First floor. The steps are cold and indifferent. This building is fairly new, and the steel blocks show no mercy.

What I love about stairs: your steps are visually and dimensionally defined.

What I hate about stairs: with each step, you must defy gravity. Not that defying gravity in and of itself is a bad thing, per se, but defying gravity approximately 150 times in succession tends to wear out a person’s legs. 

And my legs are ready to give up the ghost.

Second floor. I grunt as I trip, catch the rail, and then haul myself up, around, and continue upward.

I saw a musician perform Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” once on a talk show. I enjoyed it not because I thought the guy was a great musician or that I like the song, but because he messed up quite a few times while performing it. Come to think of it, he messed up nearly the entire song, but it was still fun to watch.

It paints a stunningly accurate picture of our lives—so many of us are trying to climb this stairway to heaven, and we screw up entirely. 

Third floor. I pause. I’ve only climbed three flights and my knees are ready to give out. 

Some of us, however, don’t merely stumble over a step or two, but it feels like we tumble down and backward, end over end, until finally crashing into a broken heap at the bottom of these unforgiving steps. It was never intentional for most people, but it happened anyway. And the saddest part is that, of the few who actually pick themselves up, they take one look skyward, they see the distance, and they decide that it’s not worth the climb.

They’d be more comfortable at the bottom where there’s no longer a chance of falling down. 

But if they knew what was waiting at the top of the stairs, would they remain on the bottom floor?

Fourth floor. I wince. My right leg begins to cramp. I glance out the window to my right. The fog is still thickening. The streetlights below carry halos above their tired heads.

But the average person isn’t blessed with knowing the end of his story. For many, it seems like they fizzle out and fade into a tired, old memory—worn out and void of life. For others, they exit the stage in the midst of the play, just when things are getting good. A few, however, live wonderful lives, and they see their end coming. Perhaps there are some changes they would make, but for the most part, life is good.

Fifth floor. I’m out of breath now, two floors left. I pause and glance over the railing toward the bottom. From here, five stories is a long drop.

Why do people fall in love? Think about it. If love is supposed to be such a good thing, why isn’t it something more along the lines of ‘I’ve flown into love!’ or ‘I’ve climbed into love!’?  A verb that sounds uplifting. Isn’t falling, like falling down the stairs, usually a bad thing? 

Take, for instance, the devil. He rebels against God, gets thrown out of heaven, and falls to earth. Hell is considered to be in a rather southerly direction. Falling on your face was never a good thing. 

And falling five stories wouldn’t feel too good, either.

But, then again, who ever intends to fall in the first place? Who, unless they’re suicidal or crazy, determines to fall down five flights of stairs and land on their face?

I guess that’s why it’s called falling in love—it’s almost always never intentional. Your heart trips head over feet for someone and there’s nothing your head can do to stop it. 

But falling in love seems to only hurt when you fall in love alone.

Sixth floor. I purse my lips and begin the final push.

Climbing is a different story altogether. Ascending up to or over something is usually a good thing. 

Take, for instance, Jesus Christ. He rose from the dead after dying to save the world. People overcome terrible situations. You raise money, you rise to the occasion, or you lift a burden. All of this upward vocabulary sounds so positive. 

But it also sounds like a lot of work. It sounds intentional.

After all, when you fall, you lift yourself up. But it’s nice when you don't have to lift yourself up alone.

Seventh floor. I sigh in relief. I don’t care to look back. I’ve seen the view so many times before. I habitually turn right, walk three doors down, and stop in front of the door on the left. I dig through the change in my right pocket and feel for the key. I put it in the lock and turn it halfway to the right.

It's almost over. I sigh as I push the door open and step into the darkened space.