On Fear

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I know someone who says on repeat that fear is not real. Maybe it is helpful to him to say that fear is a figment of his imagination, that it is but a thought created in his mind. 
That much he’s right about, after all. 

Yet, it still does not sit well with me to pretend that fear isn’t there when I can feel, sometimes even damn well taste that it not only is, but lives, so much so I can feel its pulse. 

What helps me is to say I see you. I acknowledge your presence, I feel you, and I wil even take you with me, if you insist. But I would be amiss not to tell you that I will use you: as a door to get through, as a step to stand on, as a blade to sharpen up against. I will use you until there is nothing left of you, until one day it will seem as if you don’t exist. 

But you and I will know that your existence happened yet never stood a chance, and that the truth is you were played, and what’s more, you were conquered. 

Come on fear, come along. Lest you’re afraid of the ride. 


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