The fear i hide

Throughout my life, there’s been a persistent fear, a sense that if I let my guard down, my very core might unravel. It’s as if my attention is a delicate thread holding everything within me together.

I can’t help but imagine a surreal scenario where my body’s intricate machinery unravels before my eyes. In this strange vision, my intestines slip through my trembling fingers, my hands grappling to hold onto vital organs. My heart and lungs lie vulnerable on the floor, gasping for the breath that once sustained them. Kidneys and liver slip through my grasp, and I am left helplessly trying to gather the pieces of my existence strewn across the ground.

With weary arms, I gather the scattered fragments of myself, like a puzzle missing its guiding image. Uncertainty clouds my actions as I gingerly attempt to place each organ back where it belongs, a delicate dance of restoration.

And then comes the moment of reckoning, a profound realization that what I hold in my hands is more than just a collection of parts — it’s a representation of my being, my existence. In the wake of this surreal ordeal, I am tasked with claiming ownership of this amalgamation, declaring it mine — my body, my essence, my very existence.

This vivid imagery, as unsettling as it may be, speaks to the primal fear of losing control, of being unmoored from the familiarity of our physical form. It underscores the delicate balance we maintain, often unconsciously, to keep the complex symphony of our organs in harmony. It’s a visceral reminder of the intricate nature of our existence, the fragility of our physical being, and the ceaseless effort it takes to embrace the totality of who we are.