I have a confession to make I am terrified. Of everyone and everything. Of myself. Of even the tiny decisions that are necessary to functioning in daily life. I am afraid of failing. I am afraid of being so afraid of failing that I never try and never get a chance to fail. I am afraid to not fail. Afraid that, in succeeding, I will then have something that can be taken away. I am afraid that I am nothing like other people. Not in the let your freak flag fly kind of way but in the damaged, and too weak, and hopeless way. And too I am afraid that I am just like other people. Full of secret cruelties, petty, fumbling, and blindly ignorant. It depends on the day or moment. Sometimes I am convinced that I am brilliant that I am something worth being and capable of at least half of the things I believe myself incapable of. I hate people and love people. Loathe myself and love myself. I hate that I don’t seem to want anything I am supposed to want. I want to want. I envy the passions of others. Their seeming surety. I want to want something big. And I want to want it enough to go running after it. The things I want are so small though. They don’t add up to a life’s work. At least in any way I’ve managed to figure. I want something too huge and far too vague. I want to be happy. Or at least content. Not all the time, every year, every minute. That’s irrational and not the way life or people work. But happy for an extended period of time. Not driven constantly by the feeling that something is off. I wish I knew how to do it with what I know I do love. But they are simple things. Not things generally reckoned as able to define a life. Or support a person. I love books. Good books. Particular books. I love the way they smell. I love to become engrossed in a story. It’s the only time. The absolutely only time, I feel at peace in my own mind. I love a good movie. I love a good show. Even as an adult, some part of me feels that I am witnessing modern magic. I am glad to be taken in. I love traveling. I love the change and the newness and the going back home again. I love simple, selfish things like that. I wish I loved something enough to want it forever and always. Mostly I wish I didn’t think so much.