Neurobiologically speaking, everything that has happened has coated our synapses with more knives than glitter, and the fact of a body is that it holds on to what scares us more than anything else. For safety. So it shouldn't be surprising that when confronted with a friendly genie holding a small jeweled frog all thirteen of the gnomes and the basket of kittens that run this show want to retreat to the woods to never be seen again. That's just science. Sure, maybe my bones are made of the kind of poems you want to read, but then maybe I'm five feet of dandelion fluff in girl form and all you're really going to do is scatter me to the winds. The only way not to lose is to avoid the risk entirely.
And yet.
And yet I think about the guy at Windsor Castle whose whole job is the clocks, who spends a full day each week winding each 300 year old clock and gently assuring that they haven't yet fallen out of time. I think about that Mindy Nettifee line "One look from you and my spine/reincarnates as kite string." I think about how we keep walking through fire in case there's something beautiful on the other side, and what if we are that something. Maybe my limbic system shouldn't be the one in charge.
Maybe I should acknowledge that being scattered to the winds could be worse than doing nothing at all.