Remembering one rebel:
I knew in an instant that he was a "bad boy," tortured, a man who knew rebellion, and probably violence, but was in control of it. He was so far from innocence he probably couldn't even remember it, was the exact person my mother warned me about in a conversation about dark alleys--- and it intrigued me. I knew being around him would be a very different experience, maybe even frightening, and I looked forward to every damned minute of it. Maybe he had in his past a few lollipop girls until he wore them down to the stick and all flavor was gone, but I didn't care. I was tired of protecting emotions like an unrealistic princess. Let me be the lamb, and bring on the wolf! As it turned out, he was entirely different from any of that, but then, so was I, and, details aside here, it was the best relationship of my life.
I am not a Niagara-or-Aurora-Borealis person. I spend most days rearranging mental furniture while others are in the race, in the run, in the game. I see only the footprints or a little mud on the tarmac where the bold have traveled. Though I do not live in adventure, I do so admire the rebels! Go, go, go safely, you brave, extraordinary creatures, you fierce, fearless, intransigent beings-- as determined as arrows, as bullets.