I am afraid. So?

The fear that I live with, is my companion.

I say it aloud that I hate the fear. But I share an intimacy with it.

It acknowledges me, it accepts me.

I camouflage, I live with it in a strange comfort but I say to the world that I want to get rid of it. That’s the dishonest me. Hypocrite me.

I am me. I don’t bother if you think I am timid. I pretend that I bother. But I don’t.

You see me afraid and sympathize.

Thanks, but that is okay. It is okay to be afraid, I feel so.

I don’t want to die trying to be perfect, I would be happier to die a happy me.

I find it easier to live with the fears, than trying to part with them.

All they ask for is a small corner in my heart. Until I don’t knock their doors, they stay there put.

After all, I am afraid of some things, not everything.