Quiver

If every time I got scared, worried, or upset I took a handcrafted arrow and placed it in an old quiver, what would I do with the arrows I had collected? Why, I’m sure that, by this point in life, I would have saved thousands upon thousands of deadly arrows—each as sharp as the pain I inflected upon myself. Would I sit there and let them gather dust, or would I use them for something more meaningful?

Perhaps I would climb upon my roof and notch each arrow, releasing it into the cool night air with a screaming hiss and a silent apology. With each arrow released, all my anger, fears and worries would sail away, either to hit the warm pavement and shatter or to become lodged in another poor soul.

The victims could do what they wanted with my pain, either plucking it out and throwing it away, or keeping it as a badge of honor, as proof that they could handle my pains far better than I. Or, perhaps they would remove the arrows, only to place them in their own quivers, kept under beds and behind locked doors. They would save the arrows for a darker day in their own lives, when they too would climb upon darkened roofs and shoot the arrows of misery.

Upon reaching such a conclusion, I am forced to wonder if freeing the feelings that I keep locked away would be a bad idea, if self-expression truly is the safest way. If I keep my quiver hidden, no one will ever hurt or cry because of me, but no one would know that I hurt and cry. If I choose to let loose and fire them away, I understand that people will be hurt and that there is still a chance that, while walking alone at night, I will be struck in the back with one of my old emotions. Is that a chance that I would be willing to take? Will I ever be prepared to let those feelings go, and if so, to get them back?