Lately, I find myself running out of fear.
What once paralyzed me from the inside out now more often evokes emotions both sublime and ridiculous. Not that I’ve resolved every last irritating question or found some perfect way to ignore them.
But the impassioned inquisition of youth has softened into a spectator’s curiosity, as if the reckoning at game’s end measured only winners and losers and not the breach into oblivion.
I recognize now that as the body surrenders, so too must the questions. Practicality compels it, exhaustion demands it.
Mostly, though, I’ve grown satisfied that the years have been more friend than foe. And what remains is sufficient to throttle any lingering fears.
No matter its measure.
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