As I write these words. I realise that I have this horrible overwhelming fear inside of me.

Every time I try to write, it seems to plague my train of thought until my words are looping in circles and the only thing I can hear is the faint shrill ring of tinnitus in my ears.

It is easy to pass it off as anxiety or irrational fear, but I find that quite insulting. It is doubting the possibility and trust of a person's self assessment, made with little to no knowledge.

At least say it as it is. It's somewhat crippling anxiety, and deeply instinctual fear. To say these problems don't stem from anything but a passing thought, is ignorance of the highest degree.

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What you might agree to be more correct in the end.

Knowing the sharp knife is closing in on my throat is far more paralyzing than the gun pointed at my back, one you can get used to, no matter how tough it is. The other is something you feel far too well. Visible and clear cut.

With failing hands, I know what's waiting for me. And there's only a few decades of patience a person can have. One, the life of a child and living through youth. Two, raising a child and taking care of others. Three, the monotony of life and work, to exist in society. And finally four, waiting to die a good death.

There are certainly more, likely passions or hobbies, or rites of duty. But they matter based on the individual. And I can't be bothered to list them all.

I have decided to wait for four, since I have never waited for the other three. There was nothing to wait for.