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Sometimes our fears are so irrational, if only we were the outsiders, we would have slapped some sense into ourselves, and then some more.

Me, I’m afraid of so many things, and so little things.

I’m afraid that I’ll die before I do something I have to do.

I’m afraid of others’ opinions of me, no matter how apathetic I may seem.

I’m afraid that I’ll wake up one day to face my ghosts.

I’m afraid I’ll still be the current me tomorrow.

I’m afraid that reality will fade away and there will be nothing left.

I’m afraid of being afraid.

I’m afraid of being bored to death.

I’m afraid that I cannot dream.

I’m afraid that I cannot love.

And the list goes on.

Somehow, I’m not as worried about physical torture than emotional torment. I’m worried about seemingly insignificant things, of things so incomprehensible, of things so intangible and universal that it seems silly to worry about such things. I can’t get myself to worry about the present, or the near future. Instead, I worry beyond my own death; I worry beyond my own self.

I’m afraid I’ll be alone.

I’m afraid of company.

This is a paradox. I can’t stand being alone as much as I can’t stand being with company. It’s not an intense dislike, but rather a mild discomfort that reminds me that I’m not supposed to be there. I am aware of the distance between us, between every one of us. It’s like porcupines huddling for warmth – essential discomfort. Every single one of us is alone. Every single one of us is not alone.

It’s as if there’s something waiting to be filled. Like a half-filled glass waiting to be either one or the other – empty or full.

I’m aware. I sometimes push people away. Or rather, I myself draw myself away.

Like a stalemate.

There’s no progression going on. With every advance comes a retreat.

I’m afraid of the proverbial death.

It signifies the end of things. Ironically, it’s not the end that I’m concerned about, but the portion before, and the portion after.

Augustine, or someone else, must have said this.

“Life is the prolonged act of dying.”

I think death is a relief, compared to dying.

I’m afraid that I cannot love.

The opposite of “love” is not “hate”. The opposite of “love” is “apathy”.

Apathy kills.

'So because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of My mouth.’

I’m afraid…

Because of two reasons.

Είναι επειδή φοβάμαι το Θεό. Είναι επειδή φοβάμαι τον άνθρωπο.