This double helix structure that we have built which makes us so hopeful. It beckons us to look forward, to what lies before us. And we do, we follow it with our eyes and our minds and our hearts. But perhaps we looked too far into the distance, thought too much about how things would be, could be, should be. And I fall onto the double helix, bruising and cutting myself as I crash back down. I glance up to look at where we are and the only thing that I can see is a frayed structure and your frame, floating so far away into the distance. Perhaps I could catch back up, but what would happen to this structure if neither of us was here to care for it? Would it continue to come undone, or would it attach to us and be pulled into the distance with us, or would this only cause it to unravel more rapidly. I call out for you, and for one moment, you turn to see me trying to force back the uncooperative threads that hold our double helix together. I can see the indecision in you; I can see the weak and subdued desire to come back and help me with this task, but a stronger part of you wants to run into the distance with no thought as to whether our double helix will follow us.
There is one final moment when I can see you, and you flash me a bright smile, uncaring of what is happening to our double helix because you are far enough away that you won't be hurt. I scream out in anguish, anger, frustration, sadness, desperation.
You don't care.
The double helix tears and I can do nothing to told it all together. It breaks, unwinds, and half of our structure flies after you, the other half allows me a platform on which to stand.
I sit down, and tears touch my eyes.
We have come unwound from each other.
How long will I be left to sit here alone?
