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. . .

I've Russell T. Davies on my mind. My friend finally finished The Writer's Tale and so I get my book back. So, other than flipping through that, I'm inspired to attempt better dialogue and other forms of writing. And, of course, I've followed my urge to spam her inbox. (Following the inentation, font format and such of the book we're well onto eight pages now. We communicate a lot in a day.)

Alas, other than that I have the set back of a mole that I distrust. (I'm a redhead, of course I have many moles. They come with the freckles.) My doctor isn't very fond of it either (oh, mole, why have you changed?) and is sending me to a dermatologist. What fun.

I've also come up with some ideas. When I was horrible, remarkably, ridiculously livid, I wrote a story. Granted, it wasn't something I would normally share, but it wasn't exactly of low quality. And I actually found it really entertaining. So one of my projects will be to come up with a collection of angry writing. (Unfortunately, I can only work on this when I'm extremely angry--more so than is normally inspired by aggravating scenarios. That's a bit of a setback.)

And now, while I'm off to do things off of this creepy piece of technology that takes away my fun in a pencil and paper, I leave you with this:

Inexperienced

Today I wonder, more so than usual, why is it that most adults feel the need to belittle those younger than them? To push off our experiences, troubles and emotions as insignificant and inferior? Are our lives not real? Are the emotions we feel fake, some simulation from mechanism that float overhead? Do we really only feel once we've reached adulthood--which is what, thirty now? Or forty by some standards. It's always "You don't know what stress is." And yet I've clearly experienced enough of something to be reduced to some ill-working human, terrified to trust, often found hiding, suffering from migraines, and with all the basic signs of what any adult would call stress: acne, stray strands of whiting hair.

However, if for some reason between the ages of seven and seventeen (before one is technically considered an adult) you are diagnosed with a fatal disease, never fear. You will not die without having been respected. Upon the news you become filled with wisdom, as if by magic, and experience beyond your years. (Clearly this is possible and adults are not speaking out of their asses when they subjugate others once more for someone even younger as this person is so very wise now that she/he is dying.)

Normally, this does not surround me enough that it aggravates me. That, or I am intelligent enough to shut out something that I know will cause me to do something rash. (However, my father is more irritable a creature than I am. And only gets more irritable when I, as is often as the extreme introvert that I am, am in a shut-down introvert mode and refuse to acknowledge him with more than a nod of my head. Thus today has been a very trying day on my nerves.)

Brontë World

My friend sent me this glorious video after learning I've read one and have another sister in my stack of books to read. (If only they actually had feminist vision. . . Or even worked together, considering Charlotte tore apart Emily's writing.)

Also, I've unfortunately been informed that someone I know (it's a very confusing relationship) finds my sister more terrifying than me. This is a great injustice and must be rectified: she's so not scarier than me.