vulnerability

The thing is, most of the time I don’t fear death.  Not in and of itself.  Every time my plane lifts off, I make my peace with it: the frailty of my body, the fragility of my access to life.  If my body is done, it is done.  I am reluctant to be stopped in the middle of something – a journey, a project, a lifetime.  But death has no interest in my little compulsions, and I have no illusions about this. Of course, I am not fearless:  I fear humiliation, domination, torture.  I fear being terrorized, or being put in pain.  I fear being rejected by others, fear being disgusting to them.  But death itself I respect.  I acquiesce to death, before it demands anything more of me.  It will have its way.  I think about all this while walking home from the bus at night.  Perhaps my bravery simply reflects the fact that I haven’t felt a real threat in so very long. But the idea that I might be attacked in the darkness doesn’t make me cringe or cower, or reconsider my route;  it makes my adrenalin flutter, stirs my bloodlust.  I wonder how I can be so mortally terrified of other things, stupid little things. If someone comes to take my life, daring to pose as death’s hand,  I very well may die.  But I will blaze with such glorious rage, such a violent indignation, that I will burn the flesh off their bones.