fear

They told me everyone is looking for something. Searching, seeking, whatever. They said I should start looking, too, because I never know what's out there, what’s watching, what’s waiting. They told me writing would help me; help me search for something. Anything. They told me I had nothing to lose, nothing to be afraid of. Fuck that. Fuck the writing. Fuck the searching. What would they know about afraid. I just want out.

See, whenever there's a mirror, it's always my eyes that channel fear into me. They're not the muddy puddles they used to be. My eyes have become too deep, too cold, too dark, and I can’t see the floor or the surface anymore. It's an ocean, an eternity filled with secrets, swamped in silence. It's all too much.

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t walk past my reflection anymore, without the terror leaping out and plunging fish-hooks through my flesh. A mad fist of panic clutches up inside me. The sun tips sideways, my veins burn, but I can’t look away. I can’t look away. Never.

And the same thing happens when I look at an empty page; my own eyes burn themselves into my vision. I’m staring at myself, and my chest seizes up, the sun capsizes into my blood. It happens every time. You’d think I’d get used to it after all these months, but it doesn’t work like that. Some things don’t subside, sometimes you can’t go numb.

I didn’t believe them, not a word they said, not about the searching. I’m not looking for anything. I don’t need something to find. They said it’s okay if I’m scared. I know it’s not. Scared is never okay. They said sometimes scared makes you perform better, like nerves before an exam. No, no, my scared isn’t like that, I said. My scared is like the sun abandoning all hope, tossing away the planets because everything’s too much. The oceans are too wet, the valleys too low, and space too empty, cold and lonely.

But they couldn’t understand. They asked more questions, but there wasn’t another way I could explain it. They were still searching. They still needed something. Me, I just had too much, and it’s still there inside me. It’s all there, burning, beating, breathing. There’s so much inside me, so much I need to lose. I don’t need to search.

One day I’m going to throw my hands out at the sky, throw everything away, throw myself away. I’m waiting for the day I explode. It’ll be a supernova, a split second where I’m ubiquitous, then black, then nothing.

I’m not searching. I still don’t believe them, what they said about anything, but I started writing. I thought I might lose something, anything please, with each little word I write. But it’s not like that. The eyes are still here, watching me, waiting, just as deep as ever. The words don’t stop the fear. Nothing numbs this fear. These words won’t stop me existing, but it’s better than lying here waiting for sleep come.

Better than just lingering, waiting for the darkness to lose me.