I was going to write something spectacularly melancholy...of course, now the feelings have disapated, vanished, ebbed away like a scented vapor.
Now, it's numb. Flat, cold, sad.
I always have a choice. To be happy, to live, to plod through or to run forward valiantly despite of my fear.
And fear is new to me these bright and hot days in summer. Fear has transformed its pretty little sharp gasps and trembling fingers and dry throat.
Fear is terror. Fear now, to me is gripping. Adrenaline. It's not an ominesce that hovers over me - its not a task, a black duty wedged over my heart and head.
These bright days, fear is in me. It courses around in my body. It races just under my skin. It pulses into my brain and fills the cavities in my skull.
Fear, when I meet her these days, desires to leech out of my eyes and spill into the spaces of life and movement around me.
She lies and waits for opportune moments to leep into her racing action. Moments to fly through my body on fire. Like flames licking at wood - burning it to ashes, is Fear, lapping at my courage.
I have come to love her. To love my fear. Because always there is a choice.
Will I chose to live or will I chose to die. Will I chose to cower under the blackness and become it's slave and prisoner.
Will I chose to die gloriously convulsing in the hot flames of fear - burning out like a shooting star, magical, sensual, submisively following my firey emotions - just like a victim.
But I love my fear these hot, bright days.
When I feel her rise up in my chest. Tightening. Clenching. Stretching her limbs, hunkering back and forth, preparing to sprint and course.
Then in these moments she gives me a chance.
These hot, bright days I run.
I run right on through. I look the demons in thier eyes of fury, hold my breath while dank spirit's vapors brush against my flesh, clench my teeth, feel the flames of fear's fire and then breathe deep, kick the broad over and walk through with steel in my steps.
Now, it's numb. Flat, cold, sad.
I always have a choice. To be happy, to live, to plod through or to run forward valiantly despite of my fear.
And fear is new to me these bright and hot days in summer. Fear has transformed its pretty little sharp gasps and trembling fingers and dry throat.
Fear is terror. Fear now, to me is gripping. Adrenaline. It's not an ominesce that hovers over me - its not a task, a black duty wedged over my heart and head.
These bright days, fear is in me. It courses around in my body. It races just under my skin. It pulses into my brain and fills the cavities in my skull.
Fear, when I meet her these days, desires to leech out of my eyes and spill into the spaces of life and movement around me.
She lies and waits for opportune moments to leep into her racing action. Moments to fly through my body on fire. Like flames licking at wood - burning it to ashes, is Fear, lapping at my courage.
I have come to love her. To love my fear. Because always there is a choice.
Will I chose to live or will I chose to die. Will I chose to cower under the blackness and become it's slave and prisoner.
Will I chose to die gloriously convulsing in the hot flames of fear - burning out like a shooting star, magical, sensual, submisively following my firey emotions - just like a victim.
But I love my fear these hot, bright days.
When I feel her rise up in my chest. Tightening. Clenching. Stretching her limbs, hunkering back and forth, preparing to sprint and course.
Then in these moments she gives me a chance.
These hot, bright days I run.
I run right on through. I look the demons in thier eyes of fury, hold my breath while dank spirit's vapors brush against my flesh, clench my teeth, feel the flames of fear's fire and then breathe deep, kick the broad over and walk through with steel in my steps.
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