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.