I’m hanging onto an aluminum bar by both hands and with white knuckles. This bar is my past and I’ve been hanging here for a longer time than I can remember. Though I cannot see a support, I know there must be one, invisible in this blank world of white, stark. I look down, far beneath my toes, and I see nothing there either. Just endless blank white. Where is the bottom? Is there a bottom? I bet it’s hard.

A voice. With a message from beyond the stark blankness: “It’s a world full of cynics, who say to stay alive in it, you gotta stick with what you know. But the soul is always aching for the heart to start taking a chance by letting go...” I feel the message telling me the fall isn’t far and that it’s a soft landing, but my eyes tell me otherwise. More echoes from beyond this--strings playing quick and sad, but soothing; crackling of an old recording and odd whistling, like an excited bird. Then, loud, “So let go... let go, oh sometimes the hardest thing to believe is the Truth.” 
I want to.

I want to let go and my arms and shoulders and fingers ache. But my hands cramp hard and I can’t uncurl them. I know I must let go and trust. I must let go.