Authority I had a tall lighthouse.
Standing in the dark, I thought, if there was light coming from there, it meant the path would be right. I didn't want to see it with my own eyes; I just followed the light. Because it's very scary to see where your feet are falling in the dark.
Authority was an umbrella.
When the storm came, I didn't ask if the umbrella's fabric was torn; I just held it above my head. I was more afraid of getting wet. Deep down, I knew that the umbrella might not be able to stop all the rain, but that was my hope.
I saw Authority as a map.
Someone's hand-drawn lines, saying, 'Go this way.' I held the map tightly, but I didn't see the real road around me. In some places, the colour of the map and the ground didn't match, but I kept walking with my eyes down.
Authority knew how to silence me.
Like a heavy door—when closed, no sound came out. The questions inside me pushed against the door, but I didn't open it. Because if I opened the door, cold air would come in; the unknown would come in.
One day I realised that the light of a lighthouse does not always show the coast.
Sometimes it only shows its own power. Umbrellas get wet, maps become old.
Then I lit a small light in my own hand for the first time. Not very bright, but mine. In that light, the path gradually became visible. I was afraid, but I walked anyway.
Authority may be necessary.
But I no longer stand under a lighthouse.
I see the light, then I put my feet down and walk.
