I am a different kind of brave.
Broken and misled, sure, but I step with purpose into my ambiguous future.
My compass has long since worked. The hand spins round and round. I’ll keep it always close. To remind. Remind.
Uncertain and purposeful steps take us along the Earth’s floor.
Quiet and impatient, there is always always more.
These stretches through the mountains are the hardest. These times when my faith is waning along with the Moon. These stretches of loneliness that threaten to crush my windpipe.
The long morose moors of floating bits of my own heart leave me speechless and on the verge of throat rippping screams into the night.
I clutch my compass close and let it’s warmth penetrate my fright.
It’s a different kind of brave exploring the shadowy fears in your own mind.