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Shatter me

There have been a few times in my life where I have truly made a decision because inside I knew I must. In those instances, the fear of what might happen, or even what definitely would happen, couldn’t challenge my knowing. I walked out, arms wide, ready to take the bullets.

Of course, the bullets weren’t real. The pain wasn’t usually physical. And maybe it’s unfair of me to rely on this metaphor. But, the thing is, all my fears, traced back, are a fear of death. Even when the path isn’t direct, or rational, they all terminate at, well, termination. And so, for the decision to override them so completely, it needed to override my fear of death. I made them in true peace, because the outcome truly didn’t matter.

It would matter later, when I writhed and suffered and faced my demons and prayed for angels. But it didn’t matter in that moment, when I stepped willingly into the horror of the unknown. In the wake of those decisions, no matter the fallout, there was always comfort that all that followed from them was inevitable, because the decision was unquestionnable.

But those moments in my life have still been relatively rare. Many more times I have thrashed, balked, backtracked, or muddied the scene in countless other ways. I wonder how brilliantly the divine could have shined into my life if I’d instead been able to step out, arms outstretched, with certainty that, regardless of the outcome, my aim was true.

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