My fears never really leave me alone. They barely get quiet, when I've banged their heads long enough against all the corners. They fade into the shady background of the rooms behind my back. The silence of the bathrooms where the time is in the dripping. In front is the red table, and the light pointed upward. The white walls, the dark terrace and the cold barren small trees into the pots. Wary or tired and anxious to be good to each other, me and Libi Talk. I get nervous for one or two petty things said, and we raise our voices and struggle to make our points, glares of disappointment and urge to reach and shake the other, and after a while, even after the moment when we get along again, one is left to wonder what all that commotion was about? What was it, if now I enjoy the sound of our voices in the quiet apartment, glad to be here? Delighted at the way we can be closes and still distant. And all the time, this thing in my stomach, beneath the read table, this thing with tentacles and an engine of sort that buzzes and warms up and messes up everything inside. And every fear has its double in the anxious looking forward to the same thing. Expectations for the day I'll get on the plane, dread for that day getting inevitably nearer-- worried of the separation --so much I feel I don't want to be separated at all --and long awaited feeling of liberation from all the bonds and ties and obligatory faces of me. Fear to be a coward and hide behind money, terror of the violent places, where I won't know how to defend myself or where to run, the places where everyone will be more aggressive and ruthless and weaponized than me-- and yearning for the moment when I finally will be out of the nest and far from the security and the fears that thrive in the security.
And also the other fears, always there, of decaying of bodies and waning of time, expecting the parents to be dead, and how the world will be then, lighter, larger, smaller, heavier. Etc.