The raw beauty of fear.
I’m going to have to give you boys and girls, and other forms of existence a disclaimer before you continue reading this yet another ramble of mine. This metaphorical brain splatter is going to be vague, inconsistent, and probably a bit weird and might leave you all ‘wtf is she on about’. Sorry about that. I need to process some trains of thought that are racing through my brain cells and making me crawl up the wall (metaphorically again, of course). No better place to store any intracranial implosions than the beautiful, safe space of the internets.
So anyway, I’ve been riding the old introspection wave for a while now. Bitches be ponderin’. Along have come some epic life decisions, which are too early to talk about (don’t want to jinx anything). And of course, when one makes big plans, life makes other plans. And to be fair, I am open to all sorts of manipulations. Whatever this eventually means. That’s how life on this planet rolls. Anyhow. The decisions are as scary as they are exciting. But as tradition has it, no decisions come without baggage.
I like my baggage in the form of skeletons, demons, fear, excitement, foolish purpose, and insecurity (in no specific order). But what I’ve noticed is that while I’m freaking out on the inside, this internal burn of a burn is actually a really nicely raw and honest feeling. How fucked up is it that you have to be at the brink of maddness to feel inexplicably alive and *here*. In this masochistic and mentally unhealthy way I’m enjoying whatever this is. I have no idea where I will be or what I will be a year from now. Maybe I’ll be just here. That’s fine, too. But my lord, I feel alive. And I am so scared.
I’m sure there’s a diagnosis for this.