Colouring between the lines. It’s never really been my strong suit, emotionally. I am a Libra born under a Scorpio something (moon or sun, I don’t exactly know). Any Reader who has met me never believed I was a Libra because there’s always “too much fire,” like I am some sort of a human bunsen burner. FYI, I had to look up how to spell “bunsen.”

Turns out that the Libra is what keeps everything balanced. Else, I am at risk of lighting up in proper glowworm fashion.

This is a feeling with which I am struggling now. I am suddenly a straw doll running and hiding in corners because the wrong step might be the cause of a flame that eats everything up.

Any of my friends will attest that unless it is an extreme situation — usually, I step right in and deal with any emotionally volatile situation and do my best to diffuse. Immune to flames, likely because I am normally made of them.

But not now. Now I am terrified of catching, terrified of how deep it might scorch. Drama is my bed fellow; who knew it would lie so flat next to a glowworm.

Never have I placed my emotions within the colour lines. I grab for the reds and the blacks and the royal blues and blur the lines as deep and intense as possible. Always, this has made for a better palette, a better picture, hung neatly and succinctly once the crayons have been crushed down to nothing and my feelings have been dealt with and the individuals in play have had their say. Even where this is trauma, conversation has always served as balm.

But not now. Now I have chosen to not even look at the box of crayons which, for a girl like me who plays in traffic always, leaves me struggling — a new life lesson both because it is beautiful and incredible to experience while equally it is as dangerous to even look at, and just as damaging to contemplate when you hold yourself to any kind of a fucking standard of human emotional intelligence.

Most importantly, I can not look at the box of crayons because this is not my canvas, and is something into which I have no right to step.

Worst, I think, is that the one individual with whom I would like to speak to about this is the exact person who can never know, and them in the dark is exactly how it has to stay for now. The only thing I know is that inshAllah, one day I will be able to share this with them, when it is not so terrifying or potentially damaging.

What is that terrible saying? “What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger!” Said by a masochist, no doubt.

Moses, Muhammad, Christ, and all unnamed, my “First World” problems are such a luxury.

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Sorry for any typos, this was pounded out on my berry while walking.

Image thieved from ReSurge International. Please get to know them.