Walking the line.

I've been in this line for as long as I've been alive, 
shuffling forwards between numbers 53 and 55. 
I'm 54. Yes we are numbered. 
We don't have names. 
We can tell each other apart, but mostly we're the same. 
I'm one of the crowd, we are not a selection.
Where we're going must be great, for we're all heading in the same direction. 

However, during the monotonous journey I had a thought,
about every person in line as we edged forward and walked. 
A thought that felt unclean, a thought that was mine. 
It rose in me a tingly feeling that sent chills down my spine. 
A thought so fragile I want it tucked in a purse.
A thought that questions ... 
If you're number 54, who on earth was first?  
Who started this line, and what did they hope to gain, 
from ridding the individual and tarring us all the same? 
I had an urge to do something and that something was scary, 
having been taught nothing about this what did I have to prepare me?
But the urge was there, I could feel it taking hold, as if this urge was a destiny for but me to behold. 

We shuffle step by step, single file, one behind the other, 
and I can't help but feel I've been shaken from a deep slumber. 
By a thought as loud as deafening thunder,
that grew in my mind and indefinitely plundered. 
It excites and frightens in equal measure, but the combination is sublime,
That maybe, just maybe, I don't want to stand in line. 
I want to be free and break away from the crowd, 
so immersed in this thought I can't help but act now. 

With my first step my leg trembles, for it takes me off the road, 
from those I once stood with, 
into the unknown. 
A voice bellows in my head,
"What are you doing? Get back! Hopefully nobody saw, hurry up and retract. 
I hear the voice and feel it's fear, but it doesn't stop me, 
I turn and see the horror of 55 as he watches.
I smile, but his eyes are as wide as dinner plates. 
He grabs me and says, "What the hell are you thinking mate? 
You don't get to step outside. 
With the rest of us here do you think this is wise?"
I brush him off and tell him I do, 
every fibre of my being agrees it as true. 
Another few steps, then everyone turns, 
faces of rage with a few projecting concern. 
They scream obscenities, shout like a mob, call me names,
names so horrid I know they're supposed to fill me with shame.  They tell me I'm wrong, that I'll be all on my own,
And that's when the fear takes it's devilish hold ...
I love these people, I've known them all my life.
But I cannot ignore this feeling that insists that I'm right. 
That I'm supposed to be out here, where it's frightening but free, 
where I can think all my thoughts and, more importantly, be me. 

I look to the front, where legend has it there's heavenly bliss, 
and see nothing except the edge of a cliff. 
And one by one after a time they drop off. 
I see it as clear as day and know this must stop. 
I tell them, delivering what I've seen up and down the line.
Some laugh, others call me crazy, but they all wave goodbye. 
"You're not one of us," they say,
"You stepped out of line. Change your ways and maybe we'll accept you back in a reasonable amount of time." 
I'll get photos, I think, evidence to show them. 
They laugh at these too, and the line remains as it was, unbroken. 

After a time the dread becomes norm. 
And loneliness beckons an urge to conform. 
To leave this place and step back in line.
I'd only have to sacrifice the thoughts that were mine. 
They now seem like something I could easily live without. 
I'm now questioning the very feeling that brought all this about. 
Doubt is a monster that feeds on itself, 
and it feeds and it feeds until there isn't much else. 

So I step back in line, even though,
I've dunked my head beneath the oceans surface and seen what lies below. 
The coward in me says I'm home and to not act out again. 
55 congratulates me and once more we are friends. 
What else was I to do when the fear took control?
What good are thoughts if you have to think them all on your own?
The numbers are back in order now, what was I to do?
So what if we must think the sky is green and the grass is blue. 
We are together, stronger and whole. 
Where we do what we do because we're ushered and told. 

It's my turn next. I see the cliff. I know it's there, 
know of the drop beyond but no I don't care. 
I'll be like those before me, and those who come after.
Ignoring all the independent thoughts that we harbour.

I step up, take in the fall and take in a deep breath,
because there's nothing left to do, but leap to my death. 

The end of this poem is sad, I know, but the moral is loud. 
That it's better to be an individual, than part of a crowd. 

Didn't you ever have this conversation with your mother?
Think back, please do.
"But my friends-"
"If your friends jumped off of a cliff, would you do that too?!"