I ponder upon the music from Ben Jelen's Give It All Away album as I sit beside the table near my bedroom window. Great music on a Saturday afternoon, what more can you ask for in such a moment's glory? Life - oh how quaint it can be in the silence, and deafening it in its storms. My eyes gazed upon the pages of my journal, and a certain kind of presence creeps into my shoulders. The fear has come to visit again.
My greatest fear is missing out on life. To never experience the adventures and good times this world offers me. The fear itself, when I think deeper about it, is to not live my life fully. I do not want to face my Creator after my death with my lips sealed tight, and bowing down in regret. I want to hold my head high, in full respect, when He asks, "My son, what have you done with the life that I have given you?"
Looking into His eyes, if permitted, I wish to tell him, "My Creator, I have lived, I have dreamed big, I have been scarred, I have bled and I did all that I can to use to the fullest the life You have given." I want to tell Him stories of how I became true to myself, of how I fought for what I believed is right, why I have chosen to follow the directions of the heart He has encased in me, and how I have loved until my last drop of passion has run dry.
I don't want to tell Him I wasted some days despairing my existence, or how I did not use the talents He gave me when the world called for it. I want to tell him of many journeys, my incredible moments, and the times I have stood up when life has became rough and rigid. I want to tell Him how I pushed out every ounce of me to use to make my tenure on Earth be equal to the value of the life I was given. I want to thank Him for planting seeds of dreams in my head, and giving me the courage to crush my enemies outside, and the monsters inside as well. I want to whisper to His ears how grateful I am for the gift of patience to wait for the blooming of the good things, and the appreciation of its present blessings. I want to thank Him for making me feel the fear. This fear. The fear of not living - so that I will have to live my life after all.
Finishing the day's journal entry, the fear moved closer to me. With its wet long fingers, and cold touches like bare feet on a marble floor, it places its hands on my ear and leaned its watery mouth even closer. But before it started to whisper, I put my head down to tie my shoes as I prepare to go outside. There's nothing like the smell the fresh air in one's usual afternoon walks after all. As I close my bedroom door, the fear slowly hid itself into the bottomless darkness under my bed. It will visit me again.