I’m afraid. Not of people. Not of things. But of me. I suppose that wouldn’t make sense to anyone who hasn’t really put any deep thought into themselves. But I think… perhaps if you think about it you’ll understand. It’s all about control. Not the control of other people. Not their control over you. It’s about control of yourself. There’s a place in everyone’s mind, no matter how large, that they’re afraid think about. Afraid that if they venture there they’ll never find their way out. A place so dark that you’d rather forget it ever existed, than tread there, or let anyone else know it’s there. It’s the festering wound where all your bad thoughts, all you fears, all your terrible nightmares, and all the things you’re capable of flock to like germs to a wound. But you can’t bandage it up, and it doesn’t heal. It’s always open, always inviting in some way, and very very dangerous.
Some people have nightmares. Some people have daydream visions. Some people have the odd bad imagining, a mental picture that’s there and then gone in the blink of an eye. We all push those thoughts away. We all try to convince ourselves that it’s the world that’s bad, and that we are the good shining examples of what the world needs more of. We do anything to deny what we know is there, even before we really know it’s there. We put off for as long as possible the very idea of it. We know that once it takes root coping with it will be the fight of a lifetime. And there’s not a sword in the world, nor ax, nor hatchet, nor smoking gun that will make even the slightest of dents.
The very first time I realized this place was there skulking just off my peripheral I
was in college. In a writing class I happened to be taking at the time we were asked to write a story about a monster. The things that came out of my head were so scary I never managed to finish that story. Never managed to write more than a few pages, an outline of the history of this killer, intangible, but very real, and I think that what the story was really about was that dark dank corner of the mind everyone who knows anything tries to avoid. I realized it was there and I was so
afraid of it that I stopped writing. Stopped writing that story and started writing another, about a “monster” that was so virtually harmless, a story that was funny, comical, and very much played to peoples humor rather than their fear.
The problem is, I suppose, that I know that somewhere in that corner of my mind is a great story. It’s there just lurking, waiting to be written, but I’m afraid that even acknowledging that it’s there will make it more real for me, and the realer it is, the more that place will become a part of me, and I don’t want to ever admit that it even might be. Of course, this is the part of my mind that could make me great. The part of me where all the best talent is. The part of me where all of my wildest thoughts and dreams, and ideals are skewed in a way that would make
people enjoy reading again. I can feel around the edges of my writing where denying this place has stunted it. I think the reason some of the best artists are drunks and drug abusers is not because the drugs or the alcohol makes you a better writer. It’s just the only way a sane person who wishes to stay sane can tap into that place.
This is riskier. The longer something goes unanswered the more forceful it becomes. Already that place chases me in my dreams. It corners me, pounding at the door to a room with no other exits. Anything could happen that could trigger it, and let it in. And then I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t think there’s a way to prepare for it. I don’t think there’s a way to escape it. There’s definitely no way to deal with such a thing and remain unchanged and more importantly remain in control. Instead I think I’ll keep on stacking words, piling pronouns, prepositions, prose and literary presentations in front of that door. Keep on writing and creating so that maybe when that door bursts open the sheer amount of paper and words will slow it down. Maybe.
