Of Fear

What are your fears? For how long have you had them? Do you respect them, or are you forever trying to beat them? Do you know why you have them, or have you felt them for so long that you no longer truly remember?

I am a nest of irrational fears. I am afraid of windows and of cars. I am afraid of strangers and terrified of gatherings of more than a few people. I am afraid of cars and also of most change. I am claustrophobic and also, most recently, have grown horribly fearful of a bridge near my home.

Some of these I respect, such as the claustrophobia that dates back to infancy. However, with the world in which we live, who would ever be able to evade every fear? Perhaps that is good for us, but surely every fear is created for a reason. I do not like the bridge, I've nearly tumbled into the road twice now, but I have to bike across it daily.

Perhaps this is good. What good can possibly come of a life of fear?

Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
Not Death - for who is He?
The Porter of my Father's Lodge
As much abasheth me!

Of Life? 'Twere odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or two existences -
Just as the case may be -

Of Resurrection? Is the East
Afraid to trust the Morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my Crown!

-Emily Dickinson

Is it fitting that I should look to a poem written by a famous hermit? One who decidedly would not set foot outside. Oh, the heroes and models I aspire to become.

More?

My apologies, great people of the Internet. Earlier I forgot two pictures I also really wanted to post. (Yes, you may call me names.)

A freakish swing-set:














And a dancing snail.

Art?

My friends like to draw. And are rather good at it, actually. Me, not so much. I'm the writer. One of these lovely friends, however, has been having a series of "drawing" parties, to which I have always been invited. (I love her and her inclusion of me.)In light of these, I've spent a whole few minutes to express my lack of talent. Shall we?

Exhibit A: Random legs. Badly missing detail legs. Are look at those feet. Are they even human? Eek, mutations.
Really though, legs?
Yes, legs. That's not creepy at all. They're mine, I promise.















Exhibit B: An eye. My eye. From a picture the aforementioned friend took.
Apparently my attempts at shading and laugh lines became random pen clumps?



















Exhibit C: The most basic leaf in human history.
I'm thrilling, aren't I?




















Exhibit D: An iPod.
(Don't judge me. I have a Zune. My dear, sweet Zuney. My sister told me to draw this.)
And yes, that circle is horrible.

Inquiries.

The joy of knowing I'm writing. Again.

Things I wonder, though:

Does the ability to do something you often yearn to do disable you of something else? Whenever I'm able to write poetry (generally once a year now, actually) I lose my ability to write prose. I have to strain myself for ideas and once I start writing somewhere along the lines it becomes a piece of poetry.

How often do you try to teach yourself something? Does anybody anymore? Or is it merely my surroundings, the people where I live? I'm currently teaching myself to juggle--or attempting to, but I keep procrastinating once I've done something I consider noteworthy. This is only because of something my friends and I want to do though. I got stuck with the character that has to juggle--the one thing none of us can do.

Who's patriotic? Within any country. Could you please explain it to me? The more I learn the more I refuse to call myself an American. (Why is the term American? I live here and I don't understand it. The country is the United States. The entire hemisphere is composed of the American continents.) Honestly, I've always loved Canada and England. The more I hear about American armed forces, and my parents against "socialized medicine" the more disgusted I am.

I like the world of writing. It's far less confusing. Although I do still have many grammatical inquiries. . .