When do you become the thing you fear?

When do you become the thing you fear?

The question has always loomed over me with each step I take.

It started off small. Little slips, barely even noticed as days progressed into nights, into weeks, into months, into years.

Slowly, they started to fan out. Encased like concrete around my feet while I still struggle to move forward.

The weight of it pressing into my spine.

Sinking me into the quick sands of time.

Taking.

—

When do you become the thing you fear?

Night presses on. Stealing my breath as I rise from the sands.

I feel it behind me now. The feeling is back. I don’t dare to look.

I don’t want to see the ruin that was before.

I trudge on.

Growing sharper with each pass around the sun.

Growing more distant.

—

When do you become the thing you fear?

It pulses behind me now.

Beating in tune with my own heartbeat as it inches closer.

Years on the run. Now it’s at the door.

Still, I can’t turn.

—

When do you become the thing you fear?

Weaker now. Worn down from time and pain.

It's back. Clawing up my back and inching down my throat.

Choking me.

The weight of it.

Reminders of the past.

—

When do you become the thing you fear?

When you finally turn back to see.

There you are. Bright-eyed and pure.

Not worn down by life.

Lighter.

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When do you become the thing you fear?

When you give up being the dreamer.

When you give up the wonder of life and the beauty.