the fear, so neatly wrapped

fear comes in such neat wrappings. i realize that the violence inherent in my actions geared towards myself is nothing but a byproduct of fear. what is this fear? of not getting enough? of letting go? of just being? ideals -replacable in time - come to haunt my soul, torture me, beckon me, beckon me ever so cunningly, with the sweetest possible of voices. if i only attain them, if i reach them, i will be happy. everything will be okay then. reaching them implies that i will have defeated my demons then. oh what a sweet day that will be. today is nothing. today is only worth for striving, violating myself, punishing myself for hindering myself to attain that idea already today. but the ideal is not today. it is tomorrow. and if i catch a glimpse of it, it is ever so shortly and then evades my horizons again. it is slippery as a fish in water. it vanishes when i look at it. because i look at it the wrong way. i look at it as the unattainable. i look at it as something that has worth in itself. a static goal to be reached. yes, the idea, that my demons will have been defeated once i attained that ideal already holds the key in it towards a change: it implies, indirectly, that it is not so much the goal, the finished ideal that matters but the process of defeating the demons. it´s the demons i am so scared of. it is my fear. i look at my slippery ideal in a way that makes it fade away in the very instance i behold it: my way of looking denies existence of this ideal. it denies breathing. pleasure. being. it denies the now. my way of looking strays from the insight that the process in the now matters. it still looks at the ideal as a static achievement. it´s not fluid. it is static. in its static fixation it gains power, power to punish me. power to instill fear inside of me. power to destroy my now. substitute solutions come my way: it is okay where you at they say. be nice to yourself. be okay with where you are now. they are just as static. they deny the growing in the now just as much. the fear has a feast of its own behind the battlefields. no, it is IN the battlefield, rejoicing, clapping hands, devouring my struggles piece by piece. i am hapless and helpless, on my knees. i stab myself in my eyes. in my ears so they bleed. i cough my guts up. i cut deep into my own flesh. i spit into my wounds. i burn hatred into my skin. i wrench my guts. i cut my hands off. i stuff my limbs into my mouth. i turn my insides out. i let my hair fall down. in the midst of destruction i flip back and shower myself with gratifications and recompensations. i blind my wounded eyes with silk cushions. i give myself pleasure and sweets and throbbing words of forgiving and healing. i purify and cleanse myself of evil and hatred. i purge in all the ways i know. offering my back to the demons to come and jump and devour myself yet again. so i can turn my insides out and wail to the moon. fastened to this battlefield of never and ever. of static ideas of being and self. the wrapping is just to divert the attention. not everything that says "future", "good", "resolution" on it, contains that. sometimes it is just fear wrapped in glittering ideas.