Reach

Somewhere planted deep beneath the stone, the shell, is a softness that keeps on pounding, burning and asking me to stand. I'd rather sit tight though, forget and just give in, accept the thoughts that don't necessarily need to be.
    It's like there's this battle going on in the quiet and normalcy of everything. I want to just breathe and pretend that the strain of doing so isn't there, but it is there and I'm wondering if or when it will ever go away.
    It's not what's gone that brings me down, but all that it represents. It means that because I've fallen this time, this many times, that I'll always be too tired to try again, but I've still got this thing here, this wanting to start all over again and give it everything I've got.
    I've pushed this thing back so far on the shelf that my arms have grown so sore, it's like they've stretched from all this effort and now I hurt from pushing it out of hurting range. I'm sitting here now, smiling to myself and entertaining ideas that I never even thought possible. Something dawns on me now, the reality of it all. If these arms could extend far enough to push it to where it is, then surely they must be able to reach far enough to pull it back, that burning beating, feeling, part of me that I've always been so scared to share. I'm at peace right now, but when the time is right I'm going to stand. I'm going to reach.