Stop. Go.

There’s something amazingly compelling about limits. Knowing you have to stop—doesn’t that ever make you fight harder? Do you ever want to see how far you’ll go before you reach breaking point? I think it’s the thrill of not knowing. And the fear. I’m terrified of not knowing what is enough. It’s like that game girls and boys play. A girl sits beside a boy and he puts his hand on her leg. He starts at the knee. Slowly, he inches his hand upward. He keeps going. She doesn’t resist. His hands are steadily making their way up. She squirms out of the way just before he reaches that unspeakable bit of thigh. And there’s the limit. Sometimes I am the girl who does not move a muscle. I do not flinch when that roaming hand nears the upper thigh. It’s not for the gratification of that stupid boy. It’s for me. I will always dare myself to go beyond my limits. I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to be afraid of not doing enough or not being enough.