Perhaps one day when we admit it. The moment that we surrender to what we are, then, right then, we begin to live, at last, because in that surrender, there is becoming, growing, unfurling. There is freedom from nonexistence, the justice of the laughing child, the beauty of the first day of spring, all that lies unborn in us. But to surrender is not only to stop fighting. To surrender is to lay down one’s knives, and use one’s arms to embrace one’s enemies instead, who have been revealed, at last, only as one’s brothers. And in that way, too, we must give up being enemies of ourselves, and understand, at last, this great paradox of life: that in being not even this, there is infinitely more than there is in all that we rage for and desperately desire.