He tells he’s afraid of being vulnerable, that he wants to be sure he doesn’t get hurt. I smile and say you’re not the only one.
I often tell everyone I’m afraid of nothing. And sometimes my heart is fierce and I run on adrenaline and my tenacious, stubborn will. I don’t care if I’m yelling at someone on an Oakland street or if I’m looking at an ashtray longingly or if my drunken pal has just punched a street sign. I watch my crazy club kid acquaintances snort white powder off curbs. I once placed my fingers back on a Ouija board even after all the lights went out.
I am afraid of the Devil, heights, sharks, dog bites, my emotionality, mental illness, compromising my integrity, and jumping off high diving boards. I am afraid of undercurrents, tornadoes, freezing temperatures, and asteroids smacking into the earth. I am afraid of cancer. But, most of all, I’m afraid of falling in love again. Ironic because it’s what I want most, to take the proverbial skydive of faith and hope, back into the churning ocean that makes all life. I can feel my heart pound when I consider the possibility.