My fears are real. They come for me at night — when the world is silent but undead. They sit on the foot of my bed and watch me watch them. Sometimes, they speak in a language that although makes no sense in my head, is clearly the same language my heart uses. 

My fears are real. They do not harm me when they stay with me but they break me in pieces before the sun breaks the stillness of the night. And they carry with them each piece when the moon has had enough watching.

I am fading. My fears are real. My Self, is only the essence of who I am. I am scattered everywhere and is nowhere here at the same time. My fears are real — even more than me.

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It takes either too much self-trust or just plain stupidity to be able to put yourself out there. And whilst I ponder on whether I do not trust myself or whether I do not have much stupidity in my pocket, Time kills itself.

All I know though is when I am forced to put myself out there,  my hands get clammy and my heart knocks on my ribcage like a mad man’s desperate plea to reclaim his freedom.

The only consolation to all these hullabaloo is Sylvia Plath’s words – now mine, ringing in my ears as I try to stop my heart from potentially breaking free.

I am. I am. I am.