scared

I'm scared. Paralyzed by fear. The stakes aren't so high yet my stomach drops. The one fear I've always been afraid would ruin me. My fear of change. I'm afraid how it will make me look in your eyes. I still am weighed down by this mountain of insecurity. I want to beg the God I don't believe in for help. I'm afraid of where I'll be in ten years. I'm afraid that my spark is flickering now. I'm afraid I'm not like everyone else. I've felt that a lot lately. I think it's because of the contrast of the comfort of your presence. You make it feel so easy for me to speak, and I thank you. But it's been so hard to think lately. I'm just grateful you find value in me. I'm afraid that I'll take you for granted. I don't. But I can feel the malignant tumor of complacency bearing us down. I think I own the blame for that. I'm afraid you'll realize that. I don't want to hold you back with the many years of practice I have of doing it to myself. I want you to be the happiest you can be, and to trust that you can take me at word. Therefore, my actions must align with my words. I've always had trouble putting my beliefs into practice. Now I am becoming depressed and cynical because I know what I should be doing yet I am not. And I know that with continued complacency, these words only become consumed by malignancy and burn with tension. A tension that leaves me speechless and for good reason. I should not lie when I say I want to change. I should just. In truth, I want to cry, but it feels just as fruitless. I know, too, that the comfort and kindness of your presence isn't sustainable if I'm not willing to act. I feel deeply afraid of remaining the same and deeply afraid of any major step forward. Confined by certitude bred by fear. Unwilling to embrace the unknown, as I predict it will only be the same. Yet this prediction keeps me the same. And every word I've written here instantly becomes trite and callous if I don't carry the core with me. I care about you, therefore I must act.