To write without self-consciousness;
to speak,
and to walk
without self-consciousness.
To laugh, freely,
as children do.
To live, freely,
as the insane do.
That seems to me to be
a worthy goal.
To not be bound by the limitations
of fear.
All of its trappings,
and unfortunate consequences.
Fear is a magnet,
sending it’s vibrations far and ride,
pulling back to us the things we want to push away.
Returning to us like a cat,
back in the morning from the night’s stalk;
dropping at our door
the dead mouse.
Fear is that cat.
And the dead mouse is the stench
of everything that smells of fear;
everything that has that sour, smelling odor;
everything ugly,
and everything weak,
and everything vulgar
comes from fear.