That Scene

He's having some trouble now, but can't bring himself to tell anyone about it. He's on the brink, beginning an arduous unicycle ride across a tight-rope streched over a diabolically deep chasm, and he's scared. He's telling himself that he cannot make it, but his thoughts aren't heard by his pedalling feet - they continue their mechanic motions. Not because he wills them to. They move simply because it's easy, necessary, instinctive. His body boycotts his thoughts. It struggles to survive thoughtful inhibition, to free itself of the boundaries of fear and doubt, to liberate itself from the limitations of scientific and social laws. But mid-way, as his unicycle wavers along, his eyes look down and his feet finally listen to the brain. He chokes and pedals with passion, not wanting to fall (why?) and thinking too hard about things that don't matter. He's poised for descent to those purgatorial depths below, or maybe for flight, but he's thinking too hard for his feet to decide. In that moment of neutrality - an equilibrium of flight and descent, of feet and thought, of falling and pedalling - he blanks. His mind empties. He shifts into physical balance, out of any other kind, and his feet pedal and pedal and pedal and he's across to the other side off of the tight-rope and not thinking - he collapses in a unicyclar heap: one wheel, two tingling feet, a sudden deluge of millions of self-depreciating thoughts, and no future.