Fear is a Monster

Its breath crawls down my neck even as the tentacle shackles wind around my limbs, pulling me away from the sweetness of the light, the salvation of the branches. I strain against the bondage of inadequacy, of lack. It can feel my struggle and gleefully rasps out a laugh. I shudder. I stretch my fingers high above me, desperately seeking the green foliage of the tree that can keep the monster at bay. Not my tree, never my tree, but beautifully green. Green and lazily holding its branches out to me, lush with leaves, telling me, in its cruel way, that it can be mine if only I work hard enough for it. I work so hard against my captivity. Fighting with every fiber of my soul to pry myself out of the fiendish grasp that threatens to drag me under.

Do you work hard enough, the monster whispers in my mind. I shake it away. I do, I know I do. I work so hard. I throw all my passion and love into the work. A shimmering leaf trembles just out of reach, cajoling me to try harder.

I hold my breath and thrust myself upwards. I labor for it. I grit my teeth and kick my legs. My blood, sweat, and tears lubricate the shackles and I slip away, if only a little. It’s exhausting, battling the restraints, but I do it. My eyes widen with shock and relief even as a low guttural growl rumbles through the monster. My fingers clumsily pinch one of the sweet leaves. I sob out a breath. It could be enough. It could be just enough to keep the monster appeased, then the chains will loosen and I can climb free. Please, I pray, let it be enough. The light gets brighter for just a moment.

The monster tightens its grip and tugs. The delicate leaf tears and crumbles from my fingers. Dust.

Not again! It’s not enough. I was so close. It was in my hand. I cannot breathe. The light of hope dims and I hear the echoes of my vain efforts batter me, wounding me just as effectively as the constricting chains that now wind around my chest. Despair and fear slosh over me, raining down like a bucket of icy water. Sobbing, I strain upward again, toiling against the pain in my chest.

I’m jerked violently backward towards the heart of the monster. Its putrid laughter flavored with judgment, and shame seeps through the metal into my skin, a paralyzing poison. I feel the tears leak from my eyes as I am pulled deeper into the monster’s heart, unable to fight any further. Air rushes out of my lungs as I fall, eyes still gazing up at the life sustaining tree of manufactured hopes and dreams. Leaves of lies that promise to save, but disintegrates and become worthless at the slightest touch of those beneath it.

The fight drains out of my body as I fall, the towering tree growing more and more unattainable. Icy manacles slither up and around my neck, choking the life and spirit from me. I fall deeper into the heart of the monster, and the smaller trees I struggled to climb before slap me as I pass.

Who do you think you are, they jeer, to choose a way of life that is so frivolous? The chains tighten. I let them.

I became dependent on the branches of others, on the green leaves of others, to shield my garden of bright flowers I cultivated out of fallow earth, all the while dancing out of the monster’s reach. But the monster caught up and strangled the life out of my precious garden, just as I saw the flowers start to sprout. And now my plants won't grow.

What did you think would come from a life of pursuing passions and the instability of flowers?

It is beautiful. I pour my labor into my flowers because it is beautiful.

But why labor and toil and struggle when your garden is so unproductive? The monster’s voice is seductive and vile. Hungry.

It makes me happy. It makes me so happy. I feel so cold. The monster laughs and growls, pulling the chains tighter. A clammy wind strokes my skin, mocking my misery.

Flowers cannot feed me. Flowers cannot feed anyone.

Flowers are beautiful. Flowers make people happy. We need happy, beautiful things.

Who do you think you are, the monster hissed. The shackles constrict further, cracking bones and pinching muscles.

Am I not allowed to be happy, I whisper through blue swollen lips.

Not in this forest.

I feel my limp body hit the ground. I am beyond the point of pain and fear. The monster’s chains writhe over me and dragging my body back to a small, lifeless patch of earth. It is dark and cold on the forest floor. I curl my broken body in on itself, sheltering the small part of me that is still unbroken by the monster’s cold brutality. Humid rotting breath whispers in my ear, Grow a tree, contribute to the world. It's the only way to keep me fed. And when I’m full, your tree will grow.

You will never be full, I whisper, because you will never be happy. With a sickening thunk, a heavy chain lashes my skull. The monster hisses and snarls and slithers away. But never far enough.

I allow myself to shiver and cry. As I struggle to draw breath back into my lungs, I feel sweat drip from my skin. Rivulets of perspiration mingle with the rivers of my tears. Soon blood from the wound on my head meets the sweat and tears forming a confluence that melts into the earth. An eddy of mud forming beneath my face.

I don’t know how long I lay like that. Moments. Minutes. Hours. Eons. I cannot tell. I sink into the grief of my failures, the shame of living off another's generosity. I feel like a parasite. It hurts.

Something gentle and warm presses against my cheek. With effort I lift my head to see a tiny purple flower peeping out of the mud created by the potion of my blood, sweat, and tears. I hear the rattle of chains and an ominous growl in the near distance. I shudder and bring my hands up to shelter the precious plant.

It's dangerous for you to exist in this forest, I whisper, my voice rasping and dry. The small bloom tinkles like a bell and grows defiantly bigger. It smells so sweet and fragrant, I close my swollen eyes and sink into the sensation of joy rediscovered. One little petal falls delicately from the flower. Looking around to make sure the monster is nowhere close, I pick up the silken petal up and place it on my tongue. Slowly, the offering of the flower dissolves, its essence flowing through me like a balm. I feel my broken body begin to heal. Warmth blossoms in my chest and radiates outward in honeyed waves. I hear the monster roar, but its sound is distant and muffled. The small flower tinkles brightly again.

I lean my ear closer and hear a quiet and mighty voice whisper, Grow your flowers. The monster doesn't know that flowers can heal all types of hunger.