What is my object in life? I hide away, afraid to step out. I mark and label boxes, and place inside the unacceptable parts of me. They are stacked neatly away. Just in case of a fire. Is my object, then, safety? It certainly is safe to hide away. I can walk quite normally about, unafraid that I might be seen.
Oh dear. To be seen. That would plunge my heart into turmoil. Would I be unacceptable....or worse....Would I be unintelligible? So much of who I am seems to be lost in translation, that it becomes easier to hide away. To forget parts of me. To masquerade as someone else. Some one understandable. Quantifiable.
But oh what a dead place safety is. What a damp, dark habitat my soul becomes. And oh how tired. To unpack those boxes and remember my self would demand vulnerability, persistence, and freedom. Things I cannot have on my own.
And maybe that's the point.
In the act of opening, I must trust in someone greater to love me enough to give me the freedom to be persistently vulnerable. To be able to trust in those who say they love me. Then I can pull out the artifacts from the boxes and set them back in their places.
Safety. It's dangerous and alluring. Lonely and deadening. Vulnerability and trust? Painful and honest. But beautifully freeing.