We’re afraid. Most of us, more than we’ll let on.
We’re afraid that our lives will be meaningless. We’re afraid of our aloneness. We’re afraid of our ending.
And, mostly, we’re afraid of our fear. We’re sure it means there’s something wrong with us. We each think we’re the only one who feels this way.
So we hide how afraid we are, even from ourselves, distracting and numbing and enchanting ourselves with diversions and addictions and rushing and busyness that have our life pass in a blur, leaving us feeling shallow and out of touch with ourselves.
We wonder how everyone else seems to have it so sorted (without realising that they are afraid, and hiding it, too).
And we’ve forgotten (because we seem to have wilfully abandoned so much wisdom we could have been taught by those who came before us) that fear avoided and denied goes underground, holding us ever more tightly in its invisible grip. And that running from fear is really running from life.