You Fear the moment won’t last and you Fear you won’t get the chance of it again.
You love because you Fear not being loved.
You love because you Fear you’re unlovable.
Every decision you make you do because you Fear you will miss becoming something you’re not now.
You Fear the regret, the shame, the broken-heartedness.
You Fear time, that it will wander by while you edge closer to the end.
You Fear the end.
The final silence, where you have no more opportunities, no muddle of choices, no more to make of yourself.
The end, where you are complete.
A product of your Fear.
To be forgotten by omnipotent time.
You Fear the pointlessness of your effort.
You Fear that what you thought to be futile actually is. You Fear hope for hope’s sake.
You Fear yourself.
Being alone, only with you, the self you Fear, the one you made.
You are to blame.
From this Fear you cannot run. It runs with you.
You are the factory. You are the instigator. The inspiration.
You craft it with your own body and your carry it with you like an unburdenable tumour.
It weighs you down on your already heavy journey, causing you to turn where you shouldn’t, seek refuge where you mustn’t, take you where you strive not to go.
It obscures your view and stains the maps you make.
It slippens your grasp and bloodies your tracks.
It rips and tears and keeps fresh the wounds, cuts deep the new, suckles and chews.
You are the devourer, the taker, the glutton of experiences.
You are the creator, the crafter, the twister, the giver.
You create wrong. You create pain. You create tangles and messes.
You scribble over time and doodle on delusion.
You continue to fail to make the answer.
How heartily Fear feeds.
Would you deny her sustenance?
You want her to think you a selfish creature?
You would distrust her for yourself?
Feed the belly that feeds you.
Unable to uncreate.
How heartily she feeds herself.
You will never do it right.
It IS pointless, and continuous.
I am here too.
You ARE already the answer.
You are sharing in silence with a world of messes, and Fear allows no entry.
You are creating with another who is creating with another, and together you build the intangible elephant that groans with its lonely lack of acceptance.
Time, alone, listens to its only companion.
Which time is the one you’ll pick?
Will you recognise it when it comes?
Will you have killed too much of yourself by then?
How do you know?
How, when you are blind?
(You are never wrong, only scribbling.)