I live in a world of perpetual light. The sun showers me with its affections during the day; the moon holds my hand when the warmth gives way to night. From coming in to this world past coming out to it, I have continued to walk on a paved path with no detours, no potholes, and no opposition. My family and friends have been unquestionably supportive. It is the phobia, not the sexuality, which is anathema. I have been granted the freedom to be myself, no matter what labels come attached. Am I indebted to these people surrounding me? Of course.

But I occupy a tiny bright niche in a museum of despair. Above me is another path, foreign to me. It is more unpredictable, but also more predicted. It is this solitary yet populous passage that most have no choice but to follow. Cobbled together with the shards of hate, shrapnel tears whip around in the wind like bullets in battlefields, pushing their prey closer to the precipice. This is life on the threshold, exposed to the elements, where the only ecstasy to be found comes in a pill, and the only exit lies over the edge. Am I glad I can stroll instead of stagger? Of course.

But others aren’t so lucky. Too many of us are constrained to that prison, teetering on the abyss. I walk on the ground, watching as others above me attempt their escape, throwing themselves off, plummeting from the height. And in this twisted nightmare behind the strobe lights, the songs, and the glittering façade, it is truly raining men. But this downpour warrants no hallelujah. We fall, shattering like the jagged glass tears of eyes too hardened to cry anymore. Revealing to me his final testament, one friend described his numerous suicide attempts. Another told me of his fears of being gay in a world where even God seems to condemn his own children. Meanwhile, a third described the scars on his wrists, everlasting souvenirs of the shackled life he tried to cut away. And although he acknowledged that his situation had drastically improved, he knew that his wounds would never fully heal, and might one day bleed again. A marionette in a temporary lull, most wait, dreading the inevitable yanking of the serrated wire tied round the neck. Am I thankful for being spared the noose? Of course.

But there is an undeniable sense of survivor’s guilt as I navigate the corpses of the battered souls. So far removed from their precipitous drop, I am an outsider to the common experience—an observer of something so distant, yet also so near. How dare I walk away from the train wreck of life unscathed? How dare I be passed over by the vengeful eye of God? I have been rendered a collaborator merely by infernal oversight. This is why I have become so actively involved in starting a Gay-Straight Alliance in my school. I need to give something back to those who were not born lucky like me. Otherwise my position of relative ease would be wasted. I do not need this club. I know I will survive. But the same cannot be said of others. I do it for those writing their final letters, for those with the fears, and for those with the scars. For far too many souls are scarred. And in this polar world of parallel paths, you cannot build a staircase from the top down.