And I wonder—when lights go down, and I hug my knees to my chest and fear who I am and my deepest desires—and I am a star who has left her constellation and cannot find her way home.
Home—where mocha sunrises are greeted by silence and prayer, where stress is seen as sin like we always wished it were, and you see your reflection in the pond—the reflection as in a mirror, your truer self—and you finally know who she is.
And in this life you walk down the street looking strangers in the eye, for you know who you are, while taking the greatest risk you ever have—to Live. For it is easier to live in painful rules that bind, for away from them is fearful freedom, the sort of life not dictated by another and so not safe.
Good, perhaps, but never safe.
And pain is easier than fear—because it is easier to seek for strength to merely endure than it is to risk being wrong about what it means to live alive, to risk losing everything you stayed up late nights for and prayed tears for.
And you wonder at a world that seems the antithesis of who you are—or know you are, somewhere, if you can find her and set her free—and question how it is you live so you feel the sunrise.
So you stay behind rules in the half-lived life, ordering yourself around everything but yourself, and you wonder why God is silent.
