There is a fine and delicate line one walks in pursuit of peace or silence. Those who confuse the two shall often find little peace, and only momentary silence.
The waters of a refreshing stream on a hot summer day are only too cold to those who have yet to immerse themselves in them.
It is upon a sea of realization where one truly knows, not what it is to swim or float, nor sink and drown beneath.
It is upon that sea one comes to realize the vessel which carries them, through life and dreams, time and memory. So are the things which adorn that vessel.
Mine is one covered in marks and tears from ages past. With symbols strewn about it, of dreams and memory that cannot be chanced to be lost without the marks they made.
But about me, I carry a symbol, one which has sat around my neck since the day I received it.
A symbol given by one in the past, a mark she desired to leave. A simple act of saving her life, one any would do in such a place.
But that life which was saved became something else, a disfigured form of itself that is that of something else entirely.
It is a memory now, what was once then, that life which I thought was saved.
But upon this vessel on the ever rolling sea of life, I hold on to the token once given.
There it is, a bare reminder, to know and remember at all times.
That any life can indeed be saved, but not every life should.