There is a certain beauty in not having a choice. In knowing that you are safe, and yet uncertain. In accepting your circumstances, your reality. You can’t guard or hide yourself. You can’t run. Helplessness is finite, and so you yield. You bend, until you shatter, and in that breaking you find a purity that isn’t found anywhere else. You float, you rise, you cease. Your identity falls away, the tough exterior dissipating. Your ego is destroyed and what is left is the most raw and broken fragment. Having no choice is the acquiescence of having that raw piece touched, manipulated, and wrangled. And somehow, in those moments of lava and ice, you are propelled into parts of yourself unseen and unknown, and it feels right. For someone like me, having no choice makes me feel more loved, accepted and whole than i ever thought possible.