The Murder of Fear

Loving / Eloquent / Kind / Nice / Soft / Inspiring / Uplifting

Then the frustration, at not being able to fit most of life inside these meanings. Which pronoun do I wear to lay the words down more gently, more expectantly, more respectably?

Why is being naked so unacceptable, so distancing, thus threatening to anyone within earshot or eyesight?

If you see my lips quiver, it doesn’t mean I’m standing on a fault line – it just means I’m having a taste of life’s imperfection and squeezing it out through my eyes. Everyone deals with too much salt in their life a little differently; some even shake up to get it overflowing.

Focus narrows over time, and we stop driving down so many streets to arrive at the same place, but all in all, we keep coming here. And my pride puts on the brakes, hurts my neck, and asks questions I can’t answer.

If love is my purpose, then all I need to do if inclined is apologize for any pain or sorrow caused, real or perceived, but more importantly, ensure I’d first forgiven me and also expressed forgiveness for trespasses perceived, real or imagined, hoping that anyone else facing regrets made time to work on forgiving themselves, cause regret has no mercy nor cause to support except endless misery and sorrow.

Many people have committed every sin there is to commit, even if only theoretically. I think stomping on peace counts, cause I don’t understand the lines drawn between physical and spiritual death. I’ve stomped on many a person’s peace, usually self-righteously, including my own, but eventually forgiveness triumphs.

So what next? Love. It never disappeared. We still deserve love, the most divine love that life has to offer, and it will provide more than the love in our mirror reflection; otherwise, we might kill someone.

We can’t help but look around at who remains by our side from the past and present, to suss out their reason(s) for staying, because the older we get, the less of ourselves we have the strength to hold onto, so the more grateful we feel for anyone selflessly helping us to keep it together.

I used selflessly on purpose because, at some point, we know that love doesn’t look for return. It’s already there, or else it couldn’t be given away. Also, anyone following you close enough to encourage you, but far enough away that you can’t whisper, “Thank you,” into their ear, is likely longing for your warm breath, but battling that longing to love you anyway.

You’ll think yourself mad for loving so profoundly another life you can’t hold, and you’ll rationalize how love can’t be held anyway, and it’ll be enough to come back, to love in an alternate world that only you can see and feel.

But on some days, sleep will be hard-won, because part of your heart will be stuck in that world, and part in another. Still, it’ll be enough to return, to rationalize painful longing as normal, because maybe someone long ago led us to believe it was a gift.

But part of us knows it was never a gift, that we can give it back to let it go, to make room for love that is absent longing and isn’t painful, to welcome how love not only gives but receives. This is true of every kind of love there is, from platonic to romantic.

I’m like anyone doing the best they can with their perceived normal while quivering to get rid of salt that’s altered the sweetness of pure love. One day, my words will become one unbreakable rock, and I won’t feel the need to squeeze any more muddied well water on these pages.

I’ll always honor the sketch of dark ink but still look forward to the day that fear dies, for everyone.

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