Sometimes I get so tired of being careful. Sometimes I can feel the weight of caution on my soul like a heavy winter blanket, thick and suffocating, and I suddenly feel the urge to throw all my inhibitions to the wind and let them scatter where they may, dive off the cliff headfirst without looking. There is a recklessness I feel sometimes deep within me that wrestles with the sensible, careful person the world sees most of the time.
Sometimes I'm stupefied by these apparent contradictions: that the same girl who burns her skin scarlet out of neglect to wear sunscreen and refuses to rest and act prudently when sick can be so meticulous and overly cautious as to recheck something at work three times to make sure it was done right. Or that someone who can be so reckless with her feelings is oh so careful of sharing them. How do these discrepancies coexist within a being and not destroy it? Or is it precisely the balance of the two extremes that is necessary?
And why does it always seem that, perhaps when my flagrantly daring side is most needed, it suddenly runs off to cower in hiding, leaving me paralyzed to action? Looking down from up high on the ledge, terrified to move, knowing that in jumping I can either fly or fall, and in falling only hope not to break.