Periodically, I assess the abyss. Sometimes it’s closer, looming at the edge of my vision. Other times, it’s far off on the horizon, not even in the direction I’m traveling—a distant and vaguely interesting formation, but not my destination… yet.

And that’s the rub. Some choices steer me toward it, sending me hurtling forward as if I were Evil Knievel revving up to leap a canyon.

That might even be preferable to the alternative: being dragged unwillingly toward the edge, my fingernails scraping at the sand in a futile effort to slow the pull. In the end, I’d still be flung over, arms spread wide, flapping desperately like wings that will never lift me.

The third option, and the one I suspect is most likely, is that I wander a vast plain, gazing idly toward the horizon. Eventually, I reach the edge, startled to find myself falling over—as if I had walked into a fountain while staring at my cellphone.

To avoid that embarrassment, it seems wise to look up now and then. Maybe it helps, allowing a chance to change course. Or maybe the fall is inevitable, and all you gain is the knowledge of what’s coming, ankle deep in the fountain. But at least you’re not surprised.

Recently, I spoke with someone who felt it was their time to go. Each day felt pointless, marked by sharp nerve pain that turned every step into torment. They had been active until recently, but a steep decline left them stranded in misery. In the same way we can build dungeons out of our thoughts, we can carve pathways straight to the abyss.

I know this is possible, but I would rather wander and let the fall take me by surprise.