There is an image I hold in my heart; a reality which I cling to in those moments when I want nothing more than to scream and run and curl into a ball and hide and explode and never look back or face the vast horrible crazy empty fullness of the world around me. In my mind, in my mind when all that is me wants to weep tears from every fibre of my being, I find myself at the edge of a cliff. I extend my arms, and I close my eyes, and I take a moment to notice the air is warm and soft around me as I simply let go. I do not jump, I do not step forward: one moment my feet cling to the edge and the next I am free and I am falling into the most safe and warm and wonderful atmosphere imaginable. And what lies below, I do not know--but I know that in the falling, I am cherished, and I am safe, and I am out of reach of all that would tear my soul to shreds. In the falling, I have choice, and I surrender it completely with the entirety of my body and soul.

And all outside, the world is screaming at me. All outside, there is the rude, condescending jabber of customers, the angered frustration of family, the greedy reachings of friends, the confused wantyou-don'twant of boyfriends-in-leaving, the careless anarchy of a world where I matter less than a dried smear of avocado on the floor. And yet, inside, my soul is a peace--released to a world of falling into sunshine, into starlight, into liquid surrender.

And then there are those of us whose hands and arms are mottled with snaking scars of deep purple and silver, with bruises roughening the knuckles and bloodied smears for cuticles. We don't know how we came by these because we were so involved in the doing that the small, ugly costs of that involvement never occurred until too late.
This is true in my life, and yet not true enough. How is it that I simply cannot dive so fully and so deeply into what truly matters in life, bearing those scars with joy and pride and a deep sense of satisfaction in the same way that I relish the markings of physical achievement?