There was a time when I was afraid.
Not just scared in the traditional sense.
I was afraid of everything.
Afraid of my own failure.
Afraid of my own success.
Afraid of myself.
Who I was meant to be.
Afraid of expressing myself and afraid of the things that I always wanted for myself.
Afraid of accepting my own dreams, for fear of failure.

There is nothing more paralyzing than the fear of not achieving what you desire most.
Nothing more devastating than losing yourself in fear.
Becoming less of a person, just a shell of the person you once were, because the fear you feel is more consuming than the desire to succeed.
The loss of purpose.

How do you grieve for yourself, when you've allowed fear to fester until you no longer recognize the person in the mirror?
How do you recover from such self destructive behavior?
The suicide of one's inner most dreams?
The destruction of everything you once were?
It's self harm to the nth degree; it isn't physical. It's mental, emotional, spiritual.

You destroy everything you believed in, everything that made you yourself, everything that drove you, pushed you, motivated you, the intense internal struggle, the voice that told you who you are.

The joys, the highs and lows, the love and pursuit of those things that you felt so intensely you couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't hope or dream or function without them.

When you've lost the one thing that anyone ever truly possesses? Yourself, your thoughts, your dreams.
How do you cope when your inner voice is no longer your own?
When you've lost more than anyone can possibly lose?
How do you come back to yourself?

You can't.
There is no going back.
There is no do over.
No chance at recovery.

You can only move forward.
Become someone else.
A different you.
Built anew, from the ground up.
Parallel, but never the same.
Someone who isn't afraid.
Someone who will not let go, no matter the cost.
You know, all too well, the price that must be paid.
And it is not worth it.

The spiral, the dream catcher, the smoke on the breeze.
It unravels, slipping through your fingers.
It drifts away so quietly, piece by piece.
You cannot let go.
Don't you dare let yourself go quietly.
You scream, scratch and claw, and fight.
Ferociously hold on for dear life.
You know the end of this path.
No one escapes death.

But you can fight it.
As long and as hard as you can.
Until there is no longer a breath in your body, a dream to hold onto, no strength left in you.
You still fight.
There is no other choice.
No alternative.

You are no longer afraid.
What more is there to fear when you have faced your own death, fought for life, tooth and nail, and lived.
Survived.
There is no fear.
Only the razor edged purpose that cuts you to your core.
Knows who you are.
Feeds you.
Fuels you.
Drives you.
There is no place left for fear.

There is only you.
And your inner voice.
Can you hear it?