Monday, February 8, 2016
I'm afraid of my incompetence. I'm afraid of a thousand things said prettily in a thousand words. I'm afraid of a thousand beasts, snarling poetically at the tip of my tongue. I'm afraid of hurt and anger and cruelty, which bobs neatly along my collarbones and threatens to climb higher. I'm afraid of fake and sweet and cotton candy, which tickles my nose and sticks to my teeth.
I'm afraid of the silence which sits in my limbs and climbs in my soul. That, I am afraid of the most. It is not sweet, it is not malevolent. It is.
In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.
The Crack-Up, F. Scott Fitzgerald