before i go to sleep, i think

I want to be innocent and comfortable again.

Going to school scares me.
Going downtown scares me.
Going to work scares me.
Cashing my check scares me.
Coming home and doing my laundry scares me.
Having a girlfriend scares me.
Having sex scares me.
Breaking up with a girlfriend scares me.
Getting drunk scares me.
Doing drugs scares me.

And in the moment, everything is okay. But if I lay down and detach my thoughts from my body, I find myself completely and utterly terrified. Not overwhelmed. Terrified. I want to be safe and snug. All of this will pass in a couple years when it becomes routine, maybe. And then I'll be gripped by the fear of career and retirement and 401(k)s and pension plan. But right now. Right now.

Right now, I wonder what Kierkegaard would say, or Dostoevsky, or Camus. I wonder what Bukowski, what Faulkner, what Steinbeck, with their infinite wisdom and finesse, what they would tell me.

Chatterton is dead and never had to face these problems. He would tell me nothing.