F.E.A.R.

The saying “you attract what you fear” — and what is it that I fear? The truthful answer almost pathetic. Being such a perfectionist I don’t even recognize ‘perfect’ when it falls into my lap. The weight equivalent to the world and then some that sits on my chest when I mess up, reinforcing the narrative that  I’m not good enough. I serve grace to strangers and the complete opposite on a silver platter and have none left at the end of the party. Something good can’t be true because everything ends. Dies. Wilts. Spoils. The good is for others in reality and me in the dreams I have as I zone out, leaving my body — living in my mind. There’s a couch for two in there and I prefer to lay length wise across it. Shattering, giving my heart to all the wrong people and calling it a lesson — only to never learn the material being taught. Never jumping off the cliff and lying to myself that I would survive without something I’ve dreamed of since I could conceptualize it. Shrinking myself to fit in a space not equipped for me. Or worse — changing the contents of my packaging when I was sent to the wrong address. Holding my value on the surface because what lies underneath is overwhelming. The darkness, though I find the most stillness there — both the absence of light and the kind I see in the eyes of someone everyone pulls away from. 

I think about a blue car and see 20 on my way home— I fear a million things and live them all the time. And I have yet to be taken out by what I would swear could kill me. I lay across the couch, preventing company being welcomed next to me. The one spot I refuse to make room — to shrink. Taking up my space. Until someone brave enough to not ask me to move, but lay across it with me. Even better, head on my chest, entangled between me. A couch for two goes either way — seating and width. Facing a fear and falling in love with doing so in every breath you take. Before, it was just bad company that pushed me to keep my couch, my house, in my own possession. The softest, gentle touch where it used to sting. Quiet, direct words roll off the lips that kiss, smile, laugh; while I anticipate scolding mind twists. Admiration in areas that have lost feeling. Numb is the only way to feel nothing. Feeling as warm as the color orange and the sun in April. This house is a home, a place you default coming back to. Where there’s coffee, t shirts, a toothbrush, food. Saved log ins and sides of the bed. Plants you nurture, and you’re the art I admire.

The fears I’ve attracted for 20 something years but changed the narrative. Re-structured and regulated. Reparented and renovated a house to a home. Separated two truths from a lie. Perfect is subjective, not the same for any two people. Except us. You and me — we. Are perfect. A mistake inequivalent to my value. Still serving grace on a silver platter, but in smaller portions — I no longer starve when the party’s over. An expiration date as encouragement to enjoy. Inspiration to indulge as opposed to waste, or worse, miss out. Learning to mindfully, intentionally and selectively reveal my bleeding heart; not leaving it everywhere in hopes someone will return it if lost. Risking getting burned for a chance at warmth. No longer numbing a heart that yearns to feel recklessly, consequences be damned because the alternative? Frozen solitude. Appreciating the value in all 86,400 seconds in a day and yearning to be present for each of them. No longer escaping time; smudging it out and blurring it in a layer of smoke. Touching art in a museum forbidden to avoid damage, depreciation — alteration. Look, admire — only few understand the message it delivers, and they’re hungry for more.

 To think all that, yet I’ve never feared myself. Face Everything And Rise. The truth of the matter is maybe I’m not afraid of anything. Just losing my creativity and humility, dying with dreams, and missing out on you and me.