I know it’s an irrational fear but it’s very real to me: Louis CK
2015-Passionate people have intense fears. An intense fear can be a pathetic call for attention, a ploy to fit in. The creation of a character description that defines and makes you noticeable and accepted. It can also be the image or idea that makes you grab your face, nether, and throat in terror. It’s a common reaction to protect the vital areas when you’re in insrutable fear or unsurity. In the end it’s the affect that causes chills down the spine, itchy skin, and the tensing of muscles you didn’t know existed. It makes you want to gouge your eyes out and savagely murder the preexisting moments of memory. You can feel your heart skip beats and the air in your lungs dropping to below zero; as if your body’s in a panic to pause everything by freezing the controls. That way you don’t give yourself an accidental suicidal heart attack. It can best be described as a lung freezing. An automatic protective melt-down to keep the future a safe prospect.
Only a few have such gut-wrenching terrors. But you know us because we are the ones who wake you up with horrorible shreeks and wails like the sound of children or lobsters being boiled alive. With this handicap of incessant subjective fright, and the holes that feel to form in our breast when confronted with this monster feeding on our future time with the intent of an early grave; we live as normal people with streaks of white hair within, but once and while we are moved not to tears but through physical pain by this indefinable fright. If injected with too much at once we go into catatonic fettle hibernation, and all that plays in our minds eye is that beast of an image automatically processed continually, until we wake up.
My cause of the eerie chill is arachnids, more precisely the ones that crawl on walls. There’s a reason I haven’t written the word you’re all thinking and say so carelessly and effortlessly. Its because I have a permanent aversion to such word. I need to keep my rhetorical distance before the terrors start slide-showing through my mind. I try to look at everything in a realistic logical manner, much like a philosopher. I try to find the truths analyze the meanings, but all that goes when I start talking about eight eyes and eight legs.
The appearance is damaging to me. I used to think as a boy in church if hell is as horrible and terrifying as the pastor makes it sound surely there are giant tarantulas everywhere. The smaller ones don’t effect me as much as the larger ones. I take care of minute problems with a tissue. But the idea of an infestation of the larger ones takes my mind to places I hope only the mad ever go. Then I think of how they’re known to swarm in the Outback and the Congo.
The mind reels when trapped in ridiculously one-sided bouts with its greatest fears. If I view even a picture my mind will encapsulate it and save it in a cruel game of show and tell within my dreams ,sheerly for the sake of cruelty. My mind hates me it wants me dead, and its greatest weapon against me is my greatest fear. The concept that makes me as vulnerable as a turtle lost of its shell. The only thing I fear is fear itself. Spiders. I say that word as I feel all the closed lacerations of old yelp in communal awareness to this bane’s utterance and definition. I don’t say this word. I can’t without feeling imaginary monsters moving on my back because I’ll never really know what’s back there until I meet a mirror. And my mind knows this and continues to use this tactic against me until he matures and finds something even more devastating.
Im also frightened of sea monsters. The idea of an unforeseen unimaginable quake of dark water opening up to a beast you’ve never made contact with or been informed about is terrifying. (I make this point both physically, mentally, and metaphysically) Death isn’t even questioned, it’s forcibly accepted when the beast and your eyes meet because they are so much more grand and greater than you. It’s the same hateful wonder of insignificance you get when you look into the clear night sky. The philosophy mostly, that’s what scares me. The concept not image unless it’s a giant squid or octopus. Again the aversion to eight manifestoes.
There’s a particular painting of The Kraken, again mind reeling and sweat surfacing at the mention, that always feels like a mortal puncture to my bravery. The giant octopus has two detailed apathetic menacing eyes staring right at the audience. And the waves are in levels like its creating a storm on its own, and the ship’s crew’s well being is spoken for. They’re hopelessly doomed. I ruminated so much over this 19th century painting that I’ve come up with a logical thesis as to how this could ever scientifically occur. But first more on that painting.
Those eyes are the grip of attention. They stare blankly and indifferent to the calamity they cause. The red beast is rounded like a planet or a sun. It rests at the surface of the waves like matter does space-time, and we know the fabric of the universe is made of waves. It’s almost as if the painter wasn’t talented enough to be remembered but his work was passed on due to an invisible significance. The monster sits in-between the waves as we do between gamma rays, solar flares, and asteroid belts. Maybe the monster is an illustration of life being a monster itself and we shouldn’t expect anything but what the sailors of that ill-fated boat are. Twenty thousand ships sailed that day but one happened upon calamity. That’s always how it goes. Somebody can’t make it back almost like a sacrifice for the other’s safe travels. Somebody has to pay. What a terrible way to.
According to Dostoyevsky suffering is the human condition and finding a peaceful path through our trials and tribulations is the meaning of life, to survive. The ship is earth, the Kraken our sun and we are doomed but that doom is a long, long, way away and we have plenty of time to cultivate the ability to leave this planet when our sun decides to give up or blow up. In the background are mountains could those be the corners and secrets of the universe we will never discover because our form only knows this third dimension? I realizing I’m reaching light years here but that’s how I see that painting. Indifference is the way of the universe and thank you Albert Camus for making that obvious. Now on to that scenario.
Sperm whales eat giant squids and the way they do it is by taking them to the surface so the squids dry out and suffocate. So if a sperm whale were to take a giant squid to the surface and there just happened to be a cargo ship next to their quarrel it’s very possible this painting could actually occur. Let me explain further.
Maybe this giant squid was particularly ferocious or the sperm whale was particularly inexperienced or lazy; either way it doesn’t matter, but what does matter is that the giant squid then leaves the clutches of the whale and the whale swam away. This is where it gets interesting. Then in a classic case of mistaken identity the squid attacks the hull of the cargo ship(which looks/shaped like a sperm whale) with its many tentacles flapping around and gripping tightly above the doomed sailors as it uses its sharp beak to break the hull and sink the ship.
A few survivors were then in a pub telling grand inebriated tales of slithery red daemons of hell from the deep nobody tried to believe, when a muse-less artist overheard in the corner and took their descriptions and made them rounder and more aesthetically pleasing to his magnum opus, The Kraken. This painting stood out because during this period the 1800s the sea was transitioning from wild to completely discovered and tamed as was the sailor whose career was then taking more to the form of a teacher, (just a smidge of training needed but anybody can do it.)
Ask yourself how well and with how much depth you know fear. I’ve seen the bottom, I hope. I pray I haven’t just been in contact with the bit above the surface. Fears are an iceberg. Ask yourself how much you know and have seen. Ask yourself how much you think lies below. And by the way its only sensible and healthy to intimately begin to recognize the fears that are impossible or ridiculous. Anything that doesn’t fit those two categories is a needless meaningless dive into dread and despair which is about as healthy as cyanide. A stoic philosophy can lead to uncontrollable parinioa or phychosis.
Ask yourself what you’re passionate about, I’m strangely passionate about my fears. I hope one day they’ll just melt away. Until then I’ll just have to keep away from exotic lands, dark corners, and cruise ships. I appreciate the bilateral symmetry of eight legged aliens but that’s all. I’m senseless in my aversion. But senseless fears make up our individual idiosyncrasy and that’s the definition of the human condition. Imperfection by and of passion aka fear.