To Be Afraid
To Be Afraid
This blog is a labour of love, and it will always be free. Over 1,000 people read every post which is incredible. And if just 100 people donate €2 it means that I’ll be able to continue doing all of this for another year. So if you like the work, it would mean the world to me if you considered making a donation. Thank you to everyone who already has this year. There’s no expectations, as ever, and I hope you have a lovely week. Donate here
There is also now a Thoughts Too Loud Podcast!
I read a book about the vastness of the universe and worry over ground-level things. Like how dirty the new house is, or that I’m putting on weight. I read about how the universe may actually be accelerating in its expansion, stretching out like animal skin over a drum. And I stare at my phone, feel my mind contract to trivial things.
I can’t help myself from smiling when people are around. Even when the rest of the day alone has been spent adrift in melancholy. My body is an optimist. My brain can be, too, at times, but mostly it is tensed, waiting for the fall, for all of this goodness to disappear again. As it has before. But still, I smile at people, light on my feet, my mind floats in their presence. To think I used to believe I could go it all alone. That I had enough strength to do that. We need each other – I know that now.
When I wake, all that troubled me the night before feels smaller. Sometimes, it takes me hours to fall asleep as my mind decides to run through all the mistakes I have made. And there are many. The mistakes I have made in how I’ve talked to people, how I’ve held them, how careless I have been. I relive them all in the night. I hope my poor behaviour hasn’t prevented them from moving forward. This is an ego worry. To think I could have such an effective is a sin of pride.
Maybe I am not a good writer. The tastemakers and gatekeepers send me messages each and every day to say my work has not been selected for publication. And it is they who dictate what is good writing. Most days I also receive messages from readers, listeners, who say the work has brought them to tears. Every so often a poem has saved a life. So maybe I am a good writer. It just depends on who you ask.
If I am constantly looking to others to tell me whether my work is good or not then I will never know for sure. Literature is fickle. Those who select for books and prizes don’t care if a piece has saved a life. They only care that it is good. But if a single poem can help someone escape death, then surely, no matter how it is written, it is good.
I used to be afraid of sunsets as a child. When I suffered from insomnia when we got home from America. Because sunset meant nighttime and nighttime meant sleeping and that was something I couldn’t do. I’d spend my nights alone, awake, upset because I was so tired. But I couldn’t sleep. So sunsets made me afraid. This big, beautiful, daily moment made me afraid.
It makes me think about how I was afraid of love for so long. Afraid to be loved. This big, beautiful thing that happens everyday if you look for it. I was scared of it. It felt like too much responsibility to be loved by someone else. Maybe it’s because I couldn’t love myself. I couldn’t receive something I didn’t have space for. So it scared me.
But now I know that love is a gift. It is a gift.