Scaredy Cat No More

One of my favorite questions to ask someone new has nothing to do with where that individual grew up and absolutely nothing resembling the flogged to death "favorite color and why" scenario. I love to ask someone I hardly know what they are most afraid of.
That question sums up a person's values for me. Vanity fears the passage of time, Wealth fears inconvenience, and so on.
I rarely answer this question fully or thoughtfully for myself, well....for fear of the answer. Oh, the irony.
I suppose my fear of failure is up there, along with my fears of loneliness, disappointment, and big hairy spiders. However, it seems that I am most horribly afraid of being afraid. I so painfully dread the thought that fear might keep me from happiness that I often find myself avoiding certain situations so as not to avoid them later. I pride myself on constantly evaluating my progress as an individual, but this complicated (somewhat ridiculous) realm of my personality has somehow slipped through the cracks of my sophisticated self-evaluation process.
I guess if I was to be perfectly, courageously honest with myself, then I would be forced to admit that fear, in a very real and irritating way, rules my life. This cannot continue.
I do not raise my hand in class for fear of giving the wrong answer. I don't buy those leather cowboy boots I have been coveting for a year because I am afraid they might look silly. I do not tell people what I actually, desperately want from life for fear they will roll their eyes at my pipe dreams.
Sadly, the answer to my quandary cannot be as simple as raising my hand in class in order to conveniently answer the question "What do you actually, desperately want from life" while wearing cowboy boots.
My attitude dictates my actions, and even though I may change my actions for a few days, the root of my fear will still lurk behind me like that closet monster I never got a good enough look at when I was five years old.

I do not have all the answers, (which is apparent to you at this point, I am sure) but I think I know what the first step is. I have a habit of keeping a tiny stone in my left pocket with the word "Sympathy" engraved on it, and make a point to rub it when I find myself impatient with others. I'm not sure if I think I am squeezing "sympathy juice" from this thing or what, but it serves as an excellent reminder. The next time I am impatient with my own actions, I will reach into my left pocket. I really need to cut myself some slack.
Who cares if I look stupid!? Uhh..I do. But not for long.

Besides, as that one guy said that one time, "There is nothing to fear but fear itself". And possibly big hairy spiders.

School Has Begun

There are nights that I sit on my porch, pretending the cell phone tower in the distance is the Eiffel Tower. The rooftops below me wrestle with a European fog, and not a Cincinnati soot. Mingled are ten thousand bright eyes that wink in hopes of recognition. They reflect in mine that there is a possibility of redemption, but I will have to look for it. And may not find it until the sun goes down.
The dripping rain is the bass, tumbling through the crooked door of a jazz club, becoming the fleeting heartbeat of the hour. Soloists mingle; sirens and screams, making appearances but gone before the curtain rises.
I sit and dream, brought down the earth only by a sudden bark or screech. Shivering, I go inside where reality strikes its fatal blow. Chapter Seven. By sunrise.
Not yet, Autumn. Chapter seven says not yet.