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Who still loves you, when the dice fall? When you have to pick up the cards the way they fell? Who still loves you when you have to draw the lines that are necessary, not for your imminent survival, but for your own sake? Those lines that show you that here is a good place to die because you are not able to cross them without losing that what you are made of. People lose sight of those lines. Maybe they never drew them, or they are barely a scratch on a surface that never cracked. I’ve encountered plenty of people who had no idea where their good place to die is. The rare few driven by fears they never managed to face, but most simply having become blasé about the grit it takes to be(come) alive. Or maybe that intuitive knowing never developed in an environment where we ride the waves of mass appeal. Who still loves you in those moments when your gloss is worn off and your colors show through? Who holds the space for you when you can’t take that step into your own expansion? Who allows you to be still long enough to figure it out for yourself? Who still loves you when what you have been disintegrates until there is no more physical you? When you know who (what) that is, you have finally begun to trust yourself. ~•~ a beautiful milieu