The question was if he even wanted to go back. Well—not precisely. The question was if it was worth it. That's life. A series of leaps, and the judgment of risk. Two battling arguments, one the voice of reason, and one of ambition. A life would be lost, for a life created, or prolonged you could say. His mother and father seemed very content with leaving the Underland behind, though his father stole glances at Gregor's pocket knife when he thought others weren't watching. A glint of strife, mixed with conflict. Gregor understood. The terrible truth, that said the Underland was certainly not the safest place to live. But also the longing, the seduction of such a risk. It all comes back to risks.

And then there was his mother, who smiled when she caught a glimpse of his photo. The pain brought along with the smile and the condemnation for a choice not her own. She had ordered them not to return, late one evening, but it was with half a heart and a crooked frown. The knowledge that a part of their life was being torn away, and that she had to be the executioner.

Lizzie was a brave girl. She stood tall in the face of it all, and when she fell, she fell with grace. The loss of a friend, a genuine friend—Lizzie, of all people, understood the struggles in finding those. In a world full of adversity and argument, the trust that two friends can share is such solace. But her fall was always graceful, such as it should be. She was noticeably uncaring for her studies, though intelligent as ever. The broken smile that permeated the family was not lost on her, though she used it sparingly, and with purpose. She, of all people, had been least vocal about the change. A stated, "I do not think we should." was all that was required to understand her opinion, and once they did, she ceased. A plea, and acceptance, and there you have, true bravery.

You could say that Gregor wasn't brave, not at this moment. He was scared, but not aware what of. The options he had, and the risks he could take—it always came down to risks. The option to return, heedless of the consequences that follow such an action. The logic locked away a desperate cry for reunion that echoed in his mind, describing that the Underland was not a safe place. Nor, even, was it a happy place. But people do not need to be in a happy place, to be happy. But it was a risk. As ever, as always, the risks were the question. He wanted to return, but did his family? A heated argument between mother and son is a sparse and easy thing. Separation was not. In a world in which he fled back to the Underland, what would he be giving up? His mother? His father, and sisters? The life he'd lead for 11 years, for a life of pain lasting but one. Was it worth it? Was the risk worth it? Confliction is a nasty thing. To not trust yourself—not trust yourself to know, or be certain what you know, or think. An argument in your mind, and isn't there enough of those outside? A struggle with one's thoughts, by one's thoughts, to decide what one's thoughts are. The temptation to give up thinking, and follow along the path you're walking on dictates, is not easy to dismiss. Especially when they have a point. What had the Underland done to him, to them? Hurt, battered, scarred. But along with the dark, there must be the light, and so came that the Underland also bore those aspects. Love, for people, and from people. What are we to strive for in life, if not to be loved, and to love. Love, like all things, is a risk. Like a dagger. A double-edged blade, which you see yourself in, and wonder at the beauty until it stabs you in the heart, should it choose to. The heartstrings can pull taut, but not for naught. The rewards of such a thing can be glorious, and such is the risk.

A trip to the park, and a leap of faith, would be all it would take. But such a small thing could change the course of an entire life. That life then affects others, and so on, and you start to appreciate butterflies all the more. A tightening of the muscles, and a life saved or lost, without the knowledge of the savior or forsaker.

Risks, as I have chronicled, are not to be taken lightly, but taken seriously does them no good. If such small things could affect others, what purpose does dictating the small things serve? If the universe is chaos, what is the purpose of imagining you are the order? A question such as that requires a mind more mature, and better learned than Gregor's. But he understood to an extent. And such it was that he found himself sitting in front of a stone at central park. Strife in his eyes, and a crooked frown on his lips. No intention to enter, for the risk was too great. But if all life was made of was risks, series of questions, and judgments that dictate your actions, what would life be like if you didn't take them? If all of the risks, the architecture of free will, were given up and left, and such I say, what a boring life that would be.

And so as his trembling fingers grasped the stone, and frown morphed into a similarly crooked smile, he decided that risks were worth taking, sometimes. The evaluation gets tiring, and you decide to jump, to smile, or to love, such is the possibility that the dagger misses the heart.


"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us."