This is dangerous.
I'm not sure why I even stopped to do this, though I suppose it's sometimes better to see words, to hold them like concrete in my hands and know the very real feel and weight of them, before shredding the paper and putting them from my mind. Anything that's inside me can be used as a weapon against me, and I cannot allow that. Even the momentary respite of this is probably not worth the danger of giving any real thought or feeling tangible proof. But still, here it is.
I did not start this with the intention of waxing poetic about how I should not write this, but I suppose that is proof enough of what I meant. I do things I should not do, things I know are dangerous and reckless to me, no matter how small or menial or beneficial they might be to others, out of some innate sense of humanity or whatever you want to call it. I thought that was bled out of me a long time ago, but maybe not. Maybe I am something real and tangible and more than the sum whole of my skills. Maybe I have grown into a heart.
Or, maybe I am still a cold, too young girl in a Russian snow bank pointing her gun at someone wretched and not yielding because that's what someone else told me to do, and life is really that simple if you let it be. Maybe I am neither. Maybe I am both. Maybe it doesn't matter, and that is the most likely conclusion. Life, after all, is like that.