12:33am

I am scared.
I am scared of so many things.
I have neglected my body for 18 years
since it started showing signs of development.
I am scared of being appreciated
Honked at on the street by taxi drivers and motorcycles
All going too fast to care
While I am offended and complimented in a bipolar orgy of contradictions
I am more scared than anything.
I am scared that I won't ever be appreciated more than that
More than the passing glance
The hoot
The slap on the ass
Or the eye caress

I am so scared that for years I have made it impossible to get any closer than that.

And still, for all my bravery, exploration and adventuring, for all that I have seen of the world and myself, for all the observation I have done of humanity, I am still scared and in this moment scared more than ever before.
I am witnessing the beginning of my own deterioration.
I picked my mortality from my teeth tonight and saw it in the mirror for the first time.
I have neglected my body in hopes that it would protect my heart.
Now neither is thriving
Both are decaying.

And the distractions are no longer enough.
The late night chorus from the river and the glow of my screen are all that keep me company on these interminable nights.
Beautiful, tender, generous, bright amazing women should not spend these nights alone.
Passing their sexual peak.
Watching their youth if not their beauty fade.
Each day a little bit
Being replaced by a creeping sadness
That no surgery can repair.
There is no facial, no masque, no spa treatment for that kind of damage.
Benign or malignant, some sadness, if left untreated becomes inoperable and spreads.
...
I have squandered my life. I have missed so many opportunities and squashed so many more all out of fear. A fear that I can’t seem to control.
A fear that keeps me in bed all day, that feeds me, rather feeds on me.
And a fear that allows for me to turn to recklessness as its only escape.

So controlled, barricaded and safe in my cage that to open the door for air means letting it all come crashing in and breaking the key in the lock. Tearing pictures from walls and smashing china.
"It's a prison of my own making.
I am the guard, the gate and the key." but too afraid to use it. and jamming the lock a bit more with each day.
What kind of life is that?
A place barren of opportunity, hope or faith.
I can’t bring myself to begin. Even when I am feeling on top of the world I am still broken, hiding and scared numb.