Peur

I remember I saw the image of foggy forest and I wanted to write. And then I remember.
I remember the wholeness of the fear rushing through my blood vessel. So quick, almost unnoticed. As if it is part of the dark red venous blood, sliding through the blue, innocent veins altogether in disguise. Its presence intensely pressing like a invisible bundle of air stuck in my lungs, so  immediate, caged under my long curved bones. It is real. Maybe I have kept it at the bottom far too long, pushed it too hard, thus it is now in the surface, longing to be chosen out of others, to be felt. And I hardly able to dismiss. It is in fraction of the feeling of inadequacy upon this body, this mind. Some others in abstract lines of thoughts that what I have done was not enough — was never enough. It all shapes this expression of more than a deer caught in the headlight; I am scared. The quiet kind of scared, the one that does not shiver, shake your body or fingertips but instead, your beliefs of self-identity. And when I'm scared, I tend to run away. I would run far, beyond the past, farther from future. To the dim place where nothing, nobody can find me in the light. And what scares me the most is that I would run too far, too deep even I, won't be able to find myself.