A letter to our ruler, lord of kings and beggars, that beastly tyrant: FEAR.

I'm like, so over it.

I'm done with the constant worrying, the lack of sleep, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

You said that you could help us.  You promised you would protect us.  That you would protect me.

"Listen to me," you said.

"Trust me," you said.

Well I listened.  You couldn't help.  You didn't protect me.

You built walls: strong protective walls.  You locked up my heart and buried it deep where no one can touch it.  You bottled up my passions and stored them in a cool, dry, secure place.  You whitewashed my vulnerabilities and disguised them with hanging curtains and still lifes.  You gave me guidelines and rule books, lists of  approved words and actions, checks and balances, dos and don'ts, and I studied them until my eyes burned but I never could get the hang of them.  You put deadbolts on all my doors and you said, "Look.  You're safe now."

But every second I spent in my bulletproof, steel plated stronghold wore away my happiness and my self-esteem.  I watched as my sense of wonder turned translucent and ultimately disappeared.

And then loneliness crept in, filling the stale, empty air around me, and discontent started pawing at my ankles.

You didn't protect me.  You crippled me.

With you around every dream turns to a nightmare, and my ambitions are crushed with doubts and what-ifs.  When you're around it's hard to get up in the morning and harder to go to sleep at night.  Any thought of growth is immediately shut down.  Risks are discouraged; creativity is banned.

"But you didn't get hurt," you told me, "I thought that's what you wanted."

I don't want to be safe.  I just want to be real.

Vive la Révolution