I was trying to be brave

 I was trying to be brave. To rise above and do what I wanted to do. At that moment, in that time. Brave enough to give up. Brave enough to hold still. To find courage to make the choices I had been destined to make. Brave enough to be lead by hand into a dimlit cluster of doubts. I had wanted to be brave. Calm enough to write down the echoes in my mind. Poised enough to let others read and feel my words against their fingertips. I wanted to find courage to tell her, darling it's time to let him go. To hold her and say that there is life beyond. Trust me and walk on. I wanted to be bold enough to pluck out the tags they put on us. To scratch labels and be free. I wanted to not be defined by who I am, or where I come from. The language I speak, or the color of my skin. By what I do or by the souls I touch. I wanted to be brave enough to just be. I wanted to wander aimless amongst strangers in distant lands. I wanted to be that smiling monk at a button sized monastery far removed from horrors of our world. I wanted to find courage to feel attached and drown in a suspension of sub-optimal gravity. I longed to feel. And yet I wanted to scatter and run when it felt. For the brave really aren't brave. Courage is not to be who you are. The who's of identity are labels just as vague. To be brave, is just to feel. And for just this once, I wanted to feel.