On Being Afraid

I’m afraid, as usual. But my fear is both mild and impotent. Except when I allow it to control me, to stop me from moving. To hold me in place, whispering morbid scenarios into my ear. As I cower, I’m unable to see the tiniest of grins flicker across the face of my adversary, my inner tormentor.

What is the purpose of a man who is afraid? His lofty aim is to wither, to let others think for him, to fade. To run away. This is my fondest wish, to hide. To escape the consequences of my mild, inactive, pathetically self-inflicted existence. An existence which both claims to enjoy uncertainty yet desperately falls on its own sword the instant Chaos knocks on the door.

Feckless, I soothe myself with the thought that there was nothing I could do, no alternate outcome. Except that I created the very outcome I now wring my hands over. Because I am unwilling to think, to remember, to delve deeply into my feelings and know them. Instead I ignore the entrenched pattern observed by myself and others across the years. And in my ignorance I choose repetition.

Probably writing this will make no difference. It’s likely that I’m the harshest judge of me that I will ever know. Maybe you read this and are concerned. If so, don’t be – I feel this way constantly. I’m better when expressing myself and at my worst when repressing. I’m sure there’s a more succinct way to write that, but I’m leaving it in as the poorly-constructed sentence that it is. See? I still have tongue planted firmly in cheek.

The reason I’m posting this is because it’s personal, deeply felt, slapped together, awful, embarrassing, cryptic, dull, self-centered, cliché-ridden drivel. But at least I wrote something.

I feel better already.