Easter Sunday

As usual, I have been thinking about who I am.

I was just sitting up on the roof, looking at London, having a smoke. I have had a few drinks but not too much. And, as usual, I have been thinking about who I am.

There is something odd about the air and the sky tonight – there always is on Easter Sunday, I have noticed it every year. The sky is pink and the sun is setting. I can hear birds singing, and the occasional sounds of children playing. Sometimes the “almost-silence” is interrupted by the trains and the traffic and my lungs choking on my tears. I don’t know if the evening is strange because it is the day of the Lord, or because we invented this day to be a special day, or because of the time of year – it may simply be an early April evening in the course of Great British summertime. I don’t know. But it is strange.

I was thinking about who I am, as usual.

I thought, “Sometimes I am scared.”

This is a lie. I am always scared. Not in a “panicky-anxiety-attack” sort of way, nor an “I’m-intimidated-by-everything-and-everyone” kind of way. No. I am not scared of anyone. I am, however, scared.

I am scared of my self, myself, my own strength, my weaknesses. I am scared of my self. I am scared of my brain, of the way it thinks so much. I am scared of my heart, of the way it feels so much.

I am scared of being alive. I am scared of dying. I am scared of myself. Every minute that I am alive, I am terrified. I am scared of being alive. And I am scared of dying. Every minute, of every day, I am scared, so scared, for I am alive.

This is perhaps the ultimate human quandary – I am too scared of living, yet too scared of dying. I want neither. I want nonexistence. I would like to cease to exist; not to die, but simply not to live. I didn’t ask for this – but now I ask for peace.