And I’m afraid of being afraid. I envision myself awake in my bed, motionless, with my eyes shut, both waiting for dawn and wanting to sleep. I try to answer the million-dollar question, why am I afraid? And I can’t.
At the beginning of my convalescence, as soon as the sun started setting, I’d get afraid. But I could guess the reason for my fear; I could link the words “darkness” and “death.” Over time, my fear vanished. So, I was sure that I had left my non-memories behind, and fear would soon be vanquished.
Yet, it’s alive and kicking, and even if death is still present in a variety of ways, I can’t find its link with darkness. Or is it that the non-memories are behind, but my brain’s prolonged healing fills me with a sense of helplessness? This sense of helplessness makes me fear the unpredictable future before me: the unknown detour that COVID, the election, and the Dow Jones will take; the fate of my loved ones; and the shape of climate change. Is that the reason why I’m not afraid of death, but of life?