paranoia2: electric boogaloo

The fear isn't that it will happen.

The fear is that I'll turn into the person that will make it happen. 

Idly or actively.

Watching events unfold in a field of doubt. 

Or engaging wrongly with wrong people. 

Failing to connect with the right people. 

I need to save everybody. 

I have to be ready.

It's happening right now.

I'm not ready. 

But it isn't happening.

And who knows if I am ready?

Nobody is.

Few people are.

Are those the only truly safe people?

Are we all just lucky or unlucky victims? 

Have the police trained us to be docile and comfortable? 

Is the violence worth it for a subservient population? 

I'm speaking from fear. 

Is that so wrong? 

Could this fear be seeing what I never allow myself to? 

Motivating me to get ready?

Or leading me into an ever-pervasive paranoia?

I imagine a man downstairs. 

Ready to kill.

I might be able to accept my death.

But I cannot accept the death of my family. 

Maybe the fear isn't that.

Maybe the fear is, what if I can?

What if the fear is that I want it? 

Then this fear is a lie. 

But I cannot tell which it is. 

Maybe the fear is in the unkown.

Anything can happen at any moment.

Yes... what if I'm not ready?

I react too slowly?

I react poorly? 

I panic?

I cause their deaths with my incompetence? 

And I am the last to die, to suffer in my ultimate failure. 

To watch the fruits of what I amount to.

Because I know this may happen.

And I know it's unlikely. 

But I can't let it happen.

Can my despair understand this?

There are lives at stake. 

I thought about buying a gun.

But that wouldn't keep my body safe.

I thought about learning to fight.

But what if they're armed. 

I thought about both.

But it'll just take so long. 

Time to play the blame game.

Mom, dad, you raised me poorly. 

Brandon, that name is unfamiliar. 

Chest pain, head pain, waiting. 

Waiting for the moment I see a face, masked.

You took the opportunity, the killer's here. 

And that word doesn't come off the same way when I imagine who you are. 

And it makes the fear worse.

Because you could be anybody. 

You wouldn't tell anybody. 

You'd think to yourself. 

To maybe another. 

And you'd start. 

And it'd be too late.

Because I was writing this.

Instead of... instead of...

Training.

Waiting.

Not waiting to fail.

Waiting for someone to try.

I will kill you. 

If you try. 

I don't play a fucking game.

And that makes me feel better to say.

Because I can pretend.

But then I look at myself.

And I look at the world.

And the fear's all the same.

Waiting. 

Any moment now.

No time to beg. 

Only time to prepare.

Please.

Please don't do this. 

I have nothing to apologize for. 

Maybe I do.

I'm sorry that I don't know. 

Help me understand.

And I'll take that knife of yours.

And turn it on you. 

My mind is comfortable. 

My body is not. 

I didn't check the locks.

Fear.

Makes you feel small.

Run.

For eternity. 

This feels like Hell.

But I know what'd be worse.

I've fallen.

Falling. 

Fallen.

Fuck.