I don’t understand. Why would a horror movie scare me?
Why would blood and gore and the soft steps of a silent murderer scare me?
Why would the the thump of a decapitated boy, the squirt of a ripped out heart, the screams of a young couple – why would any of that scare me?
What could fantasy do to make me feel more fear than I do at reality?
I am afraid of the edge, of how close I’ve been to it, of how I’ve looked to the other side, and lifted my foot up only to step back and turn around, and what if instead of stepping down I had slipped backwards?
Am I am afraid for anyone else who has been at the edge or who is at the edge, because there’s nothing scarier than feeling numb and content and satisfied and knowing that you could do it and just end it right now, and I am so scared for them.
I am afraid of little children not looking both ways before they cross the road, of how risky it can be, of tall SUVs and of old cars not seeing and not braking in time, and what if that new bright little light is snuffed out before it had a chance to shine?
And I am afraid for all those parents who have had too many close calls or any close calls or even that final call, and I am so sorry for those little lights.
I am afraid of the unknown, not of death as it may seem, but I am afraid of not knowing what happens after, of not knowing when after will come, of not knowing if I’ll have done everything and said everything and loved enough and hated too little, and most of all, I am afraid of not knowing if I’ll be remembered.
And I am afraid for everyone who isn’t remembered because I can’t remember you and if you’re watching in the after then I’m so sorry.
I am afraid of the almosts and the not quites and the never agains and the unanswered questions in life, and yet I love them because they are all part of life, and I love life (even if sometimes it feels like I have no reason to) just as much as I fear it.
So why would I waste any of my time watching movies of empty fears? LIfe is scary as is.