I’ve resisted writing. There is little new to say. Old terrain, worn terrain.
And I annoy myself. And how!
But it goes round. This thought.
Fueled by fear. Fear itself.
Fear of failure. Fear of embarrassment. Fear of weakness. Fear of being seen. Fear of second place, of ridicule, of pain. Fear of letting you down. Fear of expectations. Fear of correctness. Fear of rules. Fear and more fear. Fear in the day, as I fret over my place in this universe. Fear in the night, as my mind slowly consumes itself in waking nightmares.
EVERY SINGLE DAY, EVERY BLOODY NIGHT.
Oh nausea! Ennui! A restless rest and static floating!
Oh, would that I melt and become water, flowing downhill to rejoin the eternal ocean. Oh, would that my fear achieve its apparent aim, and utterly obliterate the connections that hold me together.
Obsession of obsessions: obsessed with my obsessions.
One day, I promise myself, I will release this fear and angst, baked and hardened kernel feeding my doubt. I will give it back, down through the ages.
No blame. No blame. As if the universe can be faulted for a thing!
I will return this gift bestowed upon me, the one that has consumed me, dictated my life, for thirty-five years and ten months to the day.
But right now, this instant, I am afraid.
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