the_judas_drone (the_judas_drone) wrote,

Self essay (2) Creative writing - Existentilist Timb

I am afraid of my own existence.

The creeping fear has come upon me the past two years. I exist in a shell. Upon the outside I have formed a different form of knowledge, a different view of the world, a level of entity that sees, hears, and learns, that deals with violence, anger, aggression, and shame.

But I am still afraid.

I secretly fear that there will be no death. That existence may go on forever. I am not afraid of tomorrow, nor of the past, but of this moment, this second. I am afraid of the now, that the now may never end, and I am afraid of it. My fear is hard to admit, but it is there, it is a fear that the now may go on forever, with no reprieve, no escape, no way out, that in whatever form it may take the now may last with me in it until the birth of eternity – that all things may enter it, love, happiness, pain, servitude, that there can be no reprieve from the now, and that death is a lie that they have told us, that life in fact does go on, only it goes on as it always has, in another form, within the now, only the sphere of interaction changes, the experiences of the now change, the experiences become spiritual, or higher, or different, that I may exit from this life and into another where the mode of my existence does not change, simply the sensations that pass through it – I find myself alone, and filled with anxiety at this thought. I fear my own resurrection at the preaching of this 'other' gospel.

I find myself in anguish at this thought, and yet another thought that arises from it, but different. That I am detached from the biological organism that is my body, that I am a prisoner as it were, a singular occurrence of anguish within the animal kingdom, that my consciousness is to be a mere flower on the plant for which I am a branch. One that stretches back through all my ancestors to its seed at the very beginnings of time. I am a mere appendage to the entity that carries my thoughts, an alone, and silent witness to the beast, the creature, the living of flesh, and blood, and bone, and life that is my body awaiting to pass its genes on to another, and he too shall be a prisoner, a consciousness born of the great plant that is human life. That we carry our consciousness around unaware of the real living organism, life, and life on this planet – we are like strange petals on a vine, our existing experiencing selves, extended, a part of, pushed to the forefront, but superfluous to the entity we exist from, ride upon, crawl out of, and which pulses in our veins.

How my secret fears torture me, I lay awake at night afraid of the two, for they are somehow connected. The now, the me, the ‘is’, of experience, and thought, and emotion, pushed to the fore of the strange biological entity, the plant that my consciousness has flowered from. My anxiety drives a wedge between me and my existence, it makes me separate and detached from myself, I am not as one entity, but as an entity divided in upon itself, afraid of the truth, afraid that death might be a lie, afraid of the now of my existence, and afraid of the biological form that spawned my consciousness, my thinking, my this. In précis and conclusion, I am afraid, afraid of the self that is not of the self.

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