Dread of returning to Iraq equals the direst poverty, and that's how he feels right now, poor, like a shabby homeless kid suddenly thrust into the company of millionaires. Mortal fear is the ghetto of the human soul, to be free of it something like the psychic equivalent of inheriting a hundred million dollars. This is what he truly envies of these people, the luxury of terror as a talking point, and at this moment he feels so sorry for himself that he could break right down and cry.
Ben FountainYou should have heard the old men cry
You should have heard the biddies
When that sad stranger rasied his flute
And piped away the kiddies.
Katy, Tommy, Meg, and Bob
Followed skipping gailey
Red-haired Ruth, my brother Ron,
And little crippled Bailey
Jon and Nils and Cousin Claire
Dancin', spinnin', turnin'
'Cross the hills to god knows where-
They never came returnin'.
'Cross the hills to god know where
The piper pranced a leadin'.
Each child in Hamlin town but me
And I stayed home unheedin'.
My papa says that I was blest
For if that music fond me
I'd be witch-cast like all the rest.
This town grows old around me.
I cannot say I did not hear
That sound so hauntin' hollow.
I heard, I heard, I heard it clear...
I was afraid to follow.
Tag: fear
When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently.
Eckhart TolleTag: fear perception change attitude attitudes hostility
Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves...
Cheryl StrayedTag: fear
In therapy, the therapist acts as a container for what we daren't let out, because it is so scary, or what lets itself out every so often, and lays waste to our lives.
Jeanette WintersonYes, she fears the cuffs, the cross and the whip, but she will get past this. Such problems, even with time, do not go away on their own. They must be addressed.
André Chevalier
Tag: fear bdsm sexual-abuse whip ptsd
there is nothing to be feared except a result of our own actions
cG9sYXJhZGl0aWE=UP
You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it.
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong,
you can't get out of bed.
It's something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage, the terry slippers gaping
their dark pink mouths for your feet,
the unseen breakfast--some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open--you will not dare to eat.
What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there.
No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air.
Forget all that and let's get up.
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house is on fire
and you must run or burn.
No, that one's useless.
It's never worked before.
Where is it coming form, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you,
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful
Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers?
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows you've tried.)
Now here's a good one:
you're lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?
Tag: fear life past future poetry forgiveness anxiety
We all have the capacity to find the will to do what must be done - even when that which we must do terrifies us most. Remember this.
Jessica ShirvingtonBeing brave doesn't mean you're not scared.
Neil Gaiman« prima precedente
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