Posted in Beautiful words

Fences: a page from a book


“I grew up believing in rules, thanks to my parents, Jack and Rainey Lane. I didn’t always like them and I broke them when they didn’t work for me, but they were sturdy things I could rely on to shape the way I lived and keep me—if not totally on the straight and narrow, at least aware there was a straight and narrow I could return to if I got to feeling lost.
  

 Rules serve a purpose. I once told Rowena they were fences for sheep, but fences do more than merely keep sheep in a pasture where shepherds can guide them. They provide protection in the vast and frightening unknown. The night isn’t half as scary when you’re in the center of a fluffybutted herd, bumping rumps with other fluffy butts, not able to see too much, feeling secure and mostly normal.

   Without fences of any kind, the dark night beyond is clearly visible. You stand alone in it. Without rules, you have to decide what you want and what you’re willing to do to get it. You must embrace the weapons with which   you choose to arm yourself to survive.
  

 What we achieve at our best moment doesn’t say much about who we are.
   It all boils down to what we become at our worst moment.
  

 What you find yourself capable of if…say…

   You get stranded in the middle of the ocean with a lone piece of driftwood that will support one person’s weight and not a single ounce more—while floating beside a nice person that needs it as badly as you do.

   That’s the moment that defines you.

   Will you relinquish your only hope of survival to save the stranger? Will it matter if the stranger is old and has lived a full life or young and not yet had the chance?
 

  Will you try to make the driftwood support both of you, ensuring both your deaths?
   

 Or will you battle savagely for the coveted float with full cognizance the argument could be made—even if you merely take the driftwood away without hurting the stranger and swim off—that you’re committing  murder?

   Is it murder in your book?
   

Would you coldbloodedly kill for it?
   How do you feel as you swim away? 

Do you look back? Do tears sting your eyes? Or do you feel like a motherfucking winner?
   . Impeding death has a funny way of popping the shiny, happy bubble of who we think we are. A lot of things do.
 

  I live in a world with few fences. Lately, even those are damned rickety.
  

 I resented that. There was no straight and narrow anymore. ”

– Karen Marie Morning

The fever series

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