It’s a tired old metaphor, the kind that you wheel out when there’s nothing else
It’s a tired old metaphor, the kind that you wheel out when there’s nothing else to grasp, because you know it works, and you know that it’s going to get the point across. It's decrepit, exhausted and frail, but that doesn’t stop it getting thrown into sentences a thousand times a day. It makes you feel a little ashamed, but what the hell. We’re icebergs; we only show ten percent. Fuck, we only show five. Two. One. A decimal. It’s because we don’t trust the world, and we’ve got good reason not to. It’s betrayed us before, and it’ll do it again, it’s just that kind of messed up place. And there’s so much of it that you don’t want betrayed, so much that you’ve kept quiet and safe, nurtured into something that you know is beautiful, but to hear it derided and ridiculed would kill the magic that you’ve conjured up. You hide it from the world, when you want to shout about it. You want to be accepted, and through that acceptance, lovedfor it. It makes conversation into Russian Roulette, pointing a gun at your friends, your loved ones, pulling the trigger on that kind of information and seeing whether it’ll be the bullet that destroys your relationship. Sometimes your lucky. Maybe most of the time. But it only takes one live round to ruin the rest, warn you away from that trigger finger, break it so that you can never use it again. You don’t want to be broken. You don’t want to do the breaking. But you’re not an iceberg. You shouldn’t have to be. Be a plane peaking through the clouds. Be a squid owning the depths. Be whatever the fuck you want to be, but don’t be an icebergs. This isn’t a world where icebergs survive very long, not any more. Pull the trigger, and see what good comes of it. If the gun goes off, the gun goes off; it always would and it always will. The rest of the time, you’re golden. -- source link
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