Fears

I have a lot of little fears. Ridiculous little fears that you can tell yourself don't make any sense, comfort yourself with the knowledge that the likelihood of them ever coming true is minute. Of course, minute isn't 0%, and THAT knowledge still makes it hard to walk through a yard at night, the moon shining and the monsters waiting in the deep shadows. I mean, I most likely won't get dragged into the darkness by a werewolf. But I MIGHT get dragged into the darkness by a serial killer.

But still. Those fears are tenable. If I'm gonna get killed by a serial killer or werewolf, there's not much I can do about it. That's comforting into and of itself. Yeah, it would suck, but what are you gonna do? Run? Pfft. Yeah, not with these bags of sand attached to the front of me. Fight? Oh, most definitely. I'll be fighting like a rabid dog. But it's not gonna do me much good.

No, most of the fears I have are about things that are out of my control, and I don't really let them affect my life.

It's the fears I have that are under my control, but which I might let slip from my grasp that truly keep me awake at night.

I was lying in bed the other night, eyes wide open and staring into the darkness, rolling around in my mouth the fear that I'm incapable of love. It tasted like copper pennies, like blood, like electricity. It's a trite fear. Sad, but true. I've talked to an awful lot of people who worry that their idea of love is wrong, that they aren't capable of feeling true depth, true love. That's not a comforting knowledge. I mean, just because half the world isn't capable of love doesn't mean I want to be incapable of it. I'd like to be the exception, thankyouverymuch.

But I stuff my feelings down when they start to get too big, like a down comforter that just won't fit in its storage case anymore. You shove and push and warp it down till it finally fits, and then you take it out next winter and it's a sad, non-fluffy, misshapen, lumpy little thing. No longer the gloriously voluptuous, sensuously warm hedonistic comforter you bought just a season ago. And it's your own damn fault. You can wrap yourself in your comforter of warped feathers, but it's not very satisfying, and there's going to be thin spots that don't keep you warm anymore.

That's what I do to my warm, happy, fuzzy feelings. Doesn't matter if they're for a man, a cat, a book, a friend... when they start to overflow into my reality, when I start to realize that I might someday need this thing, that I might grieve its loss, out comes the tamper of cold hard reason, and down go my feelings, stuffed back into the box of my heart. They're still there, but they're misshapen now, harder, easier to let go off. None of that taffy like stickiness that makes pulling them away so difficult, that leaves a residue behind to be picked at over the years. And when the time comes, when I have to walk away or be walked away from, I can just sort of tip my heart over and watch those feelings fall into the trash, accompanied by some dust that makes the air sparkle and taste like sweet/tarts. It leaves my heart empty, and clean, ready to be refilled.

But still. Empty. I fear emptiness more than anything else. I fear lack of feeling. I fear lack of vibrancy and color in life. I fear those thin parts of myself, wearing away over the years, easily torn now, that won't keep me warm anymore. I fear losing the voluptuous beauty of friendship and lovers, losing that connection you feel when your heart speeds up because that person is nearby. I fear losing touch. I shied away from a pat to the head the other day, shuddered away. Physical contact, the comfort of warm hands on your arm, on your head. I fear losing that. It's all a part of love, and as such, I have to work so hard to accept it. I fear that someday it won't be worth the effort anymore, and I'll let my heart stay empty.