Peter,
I'm so afraid.
Devastatingly, cripplingly afraid as I bumble through everyday life, buying groceries and doing the washing up and typing data into that miserable grey box hour upon endless hour. The sun rises and sets as always, and the world doesn't deign to bat an eyelash at the sickening fear that creeps up my spine every time I allow my mind to wander.
Because if I abandon all that I know to be real and safe, what then?
What will I do if the 'big bad world' is bigger and badder than I could ever have expected? I fear that I am not sufficiently equipped to cope. I fear that I will forgo concrete for sand and sink - and with everything gone there will be nothing to pull me out.
I fear life, and the ceaseless passing of it. I can't do anything to stop it. I am wasting it, and I can't seem to stop doing that either.
Yet while I fear life, I fear that I am not living at all.
Yours sincerely,
January
(Me too.)
YOU ARE READING
Re: Pete
Short Story❝Roses have thorns, my dear, but so do you. ❞ In which Jan falls into an existential crisis, and Pete is there for her, if only in the form of words on her screen.
