fear - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Being with Arc was like resting in a house while a gale raged outside, like in her presence time itself became more calm. She always said the root of all fears, the rotten root of mankind, is the "fear of need" and our task is to meet this fear with the same resistance a rock shows to wind - that the resolved person lets fear blow around them and remains resolute in a will to be kind.
Who made you afraid, my love? Afraid of the future and the past? For neither exist in any place but the imagination, even memory must be imagined. Thus fear is a kind of madness, but one that is useful if you know how it works. Fear will take you by the hand to the things you keep and guard as precious. Always face fear with courage, understand it, and then let it go. Let these fears wake you up, let them show you the way to your true self, to the brave soul whose love shines like a star. For without fear, love is brighter, stronger, deeper. When you find yourself, my love, you will be your own master, fully healed, and your last fear will be of your own strength.
I can feel the sweat drench my skin, the throbbing of my own eyes, the ringing screams vibrating in my ears, and the thumping of my heart against my chest. My fingers are curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm. I can't hear my rapid breathing, but I can feel the oxygen flooding in and out of my lungs. Hesitantly, my eyes look at the dead corpse before me, the person I killed. Fear tortures my guts, churning my stomach in tense cramps. Fear engulfs my conscience, knocking all other thoughts aside. Fear overwhelms my body, making it drastically exhausted. However, most of all, the fear is making me calm and that is what scares me the most.
If you are afraid of sunshine,
Even the sun is scary to you.
If you are afraid of rain,
Even a sweet shower is scary to you.
For if you love sunshine,
If you love rain,
They are a lullaby for the soul.
Fear lives not in the world,
But within the mind.
So when fear calls at your door,
Bang, bang, bang...
Ask why you are afraid.
And then you will find,
There is only sunlight in your doorway,
Only gentle rain in your garden.
Fear is shackles, fear is a knife in the gut slowly twisted, fear is a constant hammer on the head. Yet fear also evaporates like water under an early summer sun. When fear comes walk with confidence right past, because like the ghosts of children's nightmares, fear is an illusion.
The paralyzing hurt spread through my body like icy, liquid metal. I clenched my fists as I hesitantly took each step. I noticed my feet tremble. My legs twitched, fighting the impulse to whirl around and sprint down that damp, shadowed corridor; my throat closed in threat of screaming at the underpaid, overworked staff who called Dad's case hopeless, and my jaw became tight. Fire in the form of water stung my nut brown eyes, threatening their attack. I crunched my teeth over my lip harder than I ever had. Salty blood filled my mouth. Slowly, my brain picked up my feet in an unbalanced gait, carelessly dropping the lead weights to the ground with each harrowing step. Reality tried to tap its way into my marching brain's rhythm. Dad was dying. I was helpless. That was all.
Time takes it's own time. I remain hidden within the darkness of nightfall, amongst the trees. My heart throbbing in fear as I stand up against the cold wet wood. The sky was hidden above the canopy of the trees, with only one sound to be heard; the sound of my own pulse throbbing in her ears. Suddenly, the silence surrendered to the haunting scream of footsteps, the footsteps approach me lurking closer. A narrow stream of moon light filled little areas of the ground as it spotlights, a shadow quickly followed avoiding the light watching me.
I am freaking out.
I'm hypoventilating, trying to avoid making a sound. Each second seems to play on forever, as I stand perfectly still listening to the footsteps of my likely murderer. This area is not safe and I realise now that I shouldn't have given up hope.
"Fear is part of being human, David, it's the precursor to bravery. We need it, it wakes us up to what needs to be done. So feel it, own it, let it ignite your thoughts."
They say "There is nothing to fear but fear itself," yet in our world that isn't true. Many things are worse than fear. The truth, for me, in those words are a warning that fear can change who we are inside, make us compromise where we should stand firm. Is our love for one another only in our "anthems" or do we mean it? Would we feed the hungry? Would we home the homeless? If not, why not? What do we fear that keeps us from being the angels of our better natures? Who puts that fear in our hearts and minds?
Time passed slowly. Constance stayed hidden within the darkness, feeling every beat of her heart pounding on the cold stone she lay upon. The wine and ale cellar was as quiet as it was dark, with only one sound to be heard; the sound of her own pulse throbbing in her ears. Suddenly, the serenity of silence surrendered to the deathly scream of hinges, as the door opposite her was slowly prised open. A narrow stream of light gracefully meandered through the room, and a shadow quickly followed.
She was scared.
Constance held her breathe, daring not to make a sound. Each second seemed to last an eternity as she lay perfectly still listening to the footsteps of the intruder, which had muted the pounding of her pulse.
In a flash of shock and dread, I twitch awake, finding myself in a fluorescent liquid, shielded by a glass visor covering my eyes, but still, it partly obscures my vision. After the disorientation drops to a bearable level, I hear their voices – distorted by fluid and warped with fear.
Out of sight, one states. "She isn't supposed to be awake . . . not yet. Someone get to work on that."
Doing the only thing I can gets me nowhere, though the movement leads to the painful discovery of several tubes, coursing with an azure substance, all inserted beneath my skin. At first, the feeling is more distant, yet as soon as I make another slight motion, to my dismay I can feel the piercing objects sharply scraping against bone. Fighting against the urge to scream lasts long enough to provide me with the next horror. Moving across my body is a silver-hued material, enveloping the rest of my arms like a parasite, soon taking a solid form that melds with my flesh. Panic seeps through, and before long, the struggle starts, with an attempt to break away from it all and to shatter the glass prison. Every action is slow, sluggish and futile, as the tethers keep me almost locked in place using an amalgamation of agony and restraint. Seeing the struggle, a dark figure softly places their hand against the screen of glass.
A different voice addresses me, more warmly than the first. "This is worth what you're going through. Don't waste this opportunity, or you won't get another one. But this is your choice . . . so choose wisely."
After their words end, I try to calm down, yet deep below, the emotion still has a hold, and for the first time in what seems like a long time, I was afraid.
The fear sits quietly, eroding the person I was born to be. What starts as a contortion of my stomach becomes a feeling of being smothered by an invisible hand. My breathing becomes erratic, deep, then shallow. I fight it. I fight the feeling as my body writhes to be free or shut down entirely. Each time this happens part of me gets stronger, learning how to cope, part of me weakens. To recover, this new version of fear needs a name and I crown it fear of failure. Against it I pit the fear of never trying, of failing through cowardice. This is how I keep moving forward, why others think me brave. I'm not. I just know how to push through fear better than the others... make forwards less painful than hiding in the shadows.
...His nascent roar fills this modern pit of microchips, speaking straight to my own primal centre. Despite the ambient temperature my skin is icy, all blood diverted to core organs. That's when the adrenaline hits such a fever pitch that “freeze” isn't going to cut it anymore. Apparently “flight” is the new order of the day, but not slowly like a conscious choice. My legs explode into violent motion. The pneumatic doors with their clinical hiss are five metres, perhaps less; but in the instant I feel my own motion I hear his footfalls and quakes under-boot. All I can do is pray that this “baby” isn't co-ordinated yet...
As the light drains away there is barely enough even for shadows. Whether I like it or not the darkness comes and under it everything in this forest is hidden. Even the stars and moon cower behind a dense layer of cloud, giving the air that tincture I associate with the world before a storm. My ears become sharper and my mind paranoid, every snap of a twig is a predator, even if it is a fawn. For each aroma my brain jumps to the most fearsome thing it could be and my body prepares for flight, fright or freeze. For the most part I just freeze, running will give my position away and I'm not much of a fighter. All I can do is wait while the blackness comes and pray that the dawn is not far behind. So I sit on the damp ground, feeling the frigid water seep into my jeans. My heart can beat all it wants, but this body won't move until daylight breaks through the canopy above. With hands resting in the soil and my back to an oak, I remain, waiting, breathing...
Emily's mind was starting to fail, like an engine that turns over and over, never kicking into action. She couldn't formulate a thought. Every action could lead to more pain and there was no way out of this house. No way out. She brought her hand to her throat, no blood. She glanced at the floor, no trap door. Her eyes went to the walls, the windows and doors were back, the iron grille gone. She breathed. There was a chance. This ghoul had limits. Maybe the window was always there, even if she made it look like brick. Outside was night now, her mother would be frantic. They'd trace her phone signal. All she had to do was stall.
We both see delicate spring blooms. I see life as so robust that the flowers come back season after season, Igor sees them as transitory - soon to be trampled under foot. We both feel the sunlight growing stronger. I feel warmth and look forward to the harvest, Igor shrinks inside and worries about burns and insect bites. We both know the goodness in our community. I know we can push forwards and grow in an enlightened way, Igor "knows" that the people from other religions will come to spoil it and take over, ruining our progress. But Igor confuses knowledge with fear.
There are so many problems in the world, I'm not blind to it, my eyes are open too. But I don't see big religion, people as part of "herds" or "gangs," I see billions of broken hearts reaching out to know they are loved by the Divine, and they are. All of them, every single one. So I'm feeling optimistic. Our enemy isn't people at all, they are all born in innocence, there never was an "evil" baby. Cultures shape our minds, religions can inspire goodness or fear and bigotry. Cultures can change if infused with Love and mutual understanding. Fear breeds fear and shuts us off from the true inner voice of our moral compass.
People are good, human nature is just fine, culture we can change and more rapidly than people think. I reach out with Love because Love heals, Love makes us whole, Love elevates us to better and more noble thought patterns. The glass is still half full and I know we can make it if we try.
Anna's heel strikes the dirt, the flesh that once would have cushioned the blow is gone. The shock ricochets up her skeleton, which is almost all that is left of her once lithe and athletic frame. She cannot recall how long ago she was herded into the cattle cars at the railway station. The enormous engulfing terror that made her so sick, in her mind and body, has become her everyday normal. The guards carry guns, they shoot anyone they want whenever they want. Her head, once clothed in the most beautiful brunette curls is shaven, ugly, yet she is past caring about her appearance. Everyday is the same nightmare over and over. Her only constants are the hunger, coldness and fear. Every time the shower room could be lethal gas or water. At first she sobbed when the water came out, now she just feels a rise in her sickness and the dry bread might as well be sand because she can't swallow even a bite to nourish herself.
The flash is enough to near blind me and my body reacts like there's a gun to my head. My muscles are frozen in place but filled with such a tingling pressure I want to run until my body is empty – put as much distance between myself and the bomb as possible. But all I see right now is loose forms with colour and I need the world to come back into view before I can run. I know it's adrenaline. Perhaps fleeing is the dumbest move, I wouldn't know, my brain is too fried to analyse the options. If my heat beats any harder, any louder, I might as well stick a spotlight on my head. My eyes are popped open so hard I couldn't blink if I wanted to and all the while I just want to run. Hiding might be better but I can't, all this energy has to go somewhere. As soon as I can make out forms, forms but no detail I burst from my dark spot and make for the forest. In the trees I can camouflage blend, trek away from this spot all night if I have to.
They always told me I'd feel better if I put my feelings on paper, so I did. But I always knew deep down inside me, neither the ink in my pen or the stencil in my pencil are strong enough to handle the words I want to write.
The man was a dishevelled silver fox, too far off his prime to hold any attraction for Mia. She addressed him full knowing that he wasn't expecting her and she beamed a smile in his direction, opening the dialogue casually to show her breezy confidence. The effect was instant and she knew it. He failed to reciprocate the smile, mistake number one. He held his paperwork in-front of him, mistake number two. He took a step away from her, mistake number three. His voice quivered as if she were holding a gun instead of only empty hands, mistake number four. Then he transposed Trevor's name with that of his handler, his mind already thinking of his absent defender, mistake number five. Fear was written all over him, he oozed it. Mia smiled again, making further pleasantries before leaving, every part of her body language causal.
All the runaways except one huddled in the dirt. Their wrists and ankles still bore the welts of the cold steel shackles applied by the Catcher, but now they lay unbound in middle of the arena. The slave cohort had been assembled to watch and they stood gaunt, nauseous, wide eyed, hearts racing. But the ones in the centre had lost control of their minds and bodies. They were trapped in a nightmare that screaming would not save them from. Their grimy nails dug deep into each other's skin, yet not one of them noticed the pain or moved away. There was nothing left in their stomachs to throw up, what little they had eaten had been purged the night before. Now they were helpless, even if they chose to fight the cyborg abomination their legs would not obey them anymore. Indeed, they had been dragged two at a time to the centre and not one had put up a fight or a word of protest. Now the Overseer brought forth the other runaway, the leader, and instructed him to release the beast.
Horse whisperers take the approach of love and kindness. They don’t lean in and speak in a special equine language, they let the horse run free in a pen. When she stops they signal the horse and if she stands they will pet her like her mother did, with soft body contact. When she wants to run away they let her run it out. When she tires of that she’ll come back for more petting. The process repeats, the horse learns to trust them and then they begin to work together in a positive relationship. What is the “traditional” approach? To “break” a horse? Whips, fear, beating - often ending in sending the horse for slaughter when it is too traumatized to be of use. Why do we treat horses this way? Do we treat people this way? Can we see the same approach in our homes and schools? Do we control our children with fear tactics? Isn't that how the education system began?
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
Kindra swallowed the Ativan and waited for it to kick in. Once she set foot in the air-terminal it would be too late. Already her heart rate was accelerating and her mind replayed crash-stories on a short loop. With her conscious mind she reiterated the safety statistics: safer than driving, safer than crossing the road, thousands of planes fly every day, how many crash? Twenty minutes later she heaved the ruck-sack to her shoulder and walked in, eyes captivated by the glowing billboards, arrivals and departures. Her stomach heaved unhelpfully but the meds kept a lid on it. Every footfall over the well worn carpet felt like a step towards to her own grave; already her knuckles were whitened and her face paled. Soon her thoughts tumbled just as fast as before, but at least with the drugs the speed was capped, allowing her to counsel herself between each new horrific recollection.
As his bony paw reaches out for me, I can hear 'her' laugh, a cruel, cold cackle that froze me in my spot and drained all hope, dreams and feeling from within me, replacing them with a feeling of despair, hopelessness and most of all, fear. It's claws cut through my body and wrapped around my brain. It choked the breath from my lungs and left my body dry heaving, desperately trying to rid me of all this. Black mist swirled at the edges of my mind, drawing me into it's open arms and salty tears spilled over onto my cheeks leaving a tight, dry feeling. The monster's paw wrapped around my body and I screamed. Only I didn't. I strained my vocal chords but not a sound came out. Still I screamed, hoping someone would hear. I screamed and screamed and screamed.
It is a matter that holds no true form, it weaves into the hearts of all. A formless matter trapped in a cage made of thin wood, bathed in blood and pure adrenaline. When no creature stirred, and the winds stopped its forest maze. The matter held a conscience that knocked on the cage doors begging for release, but no matter how hard the task was, we hold the keys in our throats refusing to swallow.
Amelia had been considering what to make for dinner; there was frozen convenience food and stuff she needed to chop and season. After slamming a lasagne in the oven and whacking up the heat she flicked on the television only to instantly loose her appetite. More beheadings, more kidnappings, and the flu season was ramping up to be a killer. Some kids had been killed by their own mother and a terrorist had shot up the parliament building. The screen flickered its images into her mind, images she could not erase. She felt the blood leave her skin. There was a rap at her door and she jumped as if a terrorist had leapt from behind the couch. It was her neighbour, Aadila, her head covered as usual. "Hey, you've left your car lights on, don't want your battery to go flat." Amelia deflated like a tire with a slow leak and thanked her before closing the door. She slid down the metal to the tile while her brain tried to make sense of it all; her higher thinking hindered by the fear...
I've seen darkness before, the kind that makes our street like an old fashioned photograph, everything a shade of grey. This isn't like that. This is the darkness that robs you of your best sense and replaces it with a paralysing fear. In this darkness I sit, muscles cramped and unable to move. I only know my eyes are still there because I can feel myself blink, still instinctively moisturizing the organs I have no current use for. I can't hear anything either. I guess that should bring my heart rate down below the level of “rabbit in a snare” but it doesn't. By my genes I am a predator, I have the front facing eyes and brain enough to hunt, but I feel like prey in this utter black. The dawn is many hours away and until that precious time I can only wait. Moving makes noise, it's bad enough I still have to breath. But I want to see tomorrow enough to make me hold this position for as long as it takes. Not making it means not being there for Sharla and that is something I would never willingly do. Abandoning isn't my thing.
“Hey, Miss?” she called to the waitress.
The heads of everyone at the counter turned toward them.
“Hey Miss, the door’s stuck.”
The customers stared. A couple of the younger ones smiled, but most looked grim.
“Ain’t stuck, honey. It’s locked.”
Neala felt a tight pull of fear in her bowels.
“How about unlocking it?” Sherri asked.
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Yeah? Why the fuck not?”
“ ’Cause you’re here to stay, you two.”
Chattering teeth due to a quivering jaw; clenching the teeth in an effort to keep the jaw still; dropping the jaw so as to breathe in more oxygen in preparation for what's to come.
Jim Morrison says “people fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over.” And he's right, he really is. Death is that one thing everyone's afraid of, yet they will themselves to go on with life. I do the same and I know I do it.
So although I wish I could swing my body off the top of building, or walk into the depths of the ocean and stay beneath its wave, or shoot away the pain with the cool metal, I wont. Because above pain, I fear death.
Melvin, you lovable OCDer. You are plagued by your fear, of germs, far and near. You look with disgust, sensing germs on us, and on our hands, and so you stand, pressed away from the rest. And when, the table you touch, it seems “too much.” You seem overcome with dread, and your face turns red. You wash with soap as you fight with hope, of killing them on the TV remote. When did it start, that you hated from your heart, and did your part, to eradicate them? Tiny foes, that jump on your clothes, and attack you, I suppose. As a child, when other kids ran wild, did you stay clear because of your fear? You ask, “Do you realize, they are invisible with no disguise?” You put up a fuss because you don’t understand us.
Melvin, would you feel safe in an air tight room, far away from the gloom – of their tiny, impending gloom? However, you live in spite of your fear, you persevere from there to here, Melvin, you loveable OCDer.
Darkness washed over them sending another chill down his spine. But it wasn’t a chill of passion. It was a chill of fear. The same fear he had before he lost his parents.
"...If your life is a rough bed of brambles and nails
And your spirit's a slave to man's whips and man's jails
Where you thirst and you hunger for justice and right
Then your heart is a pure flame of man's constant night
In your eyes faint as the singing of a lark
That somehow this black night
Feels warmer for the spark
Warmer for the spark
To hold us 'til the day when fear will lose its grip
And heaven has its way
And heaven has its way
When all will harmonise
And know what's in our hearts
The dream will realise..."
Greg shut the television off. He had no way to tell if the media reports were even true, or perhaps true in part, but so bias in their presentation or omissions that he was being lead by the nose. All he knew was that Jesus had told him to love his neighbours, to turn the other cheek. When he thought with his higher brain he could do that. He could pour out love to everyone and anyone. But once fear took hold, the primitive part of his brain was the boss, locking him down into survival mode: "them or us," "kill or be killed." They weren't just robbing him of his better self, they stole his ability to live his life for the Lord, to let God flow through his thoughts and deeds.
Orion's presence alone hung like a threatening hail-cloud over the sprouting harvest of her peace of mind.
You fear losing the love in your life, fear being abandoned and misunderstood. There’s a lot of fear in you actually, mostly manifesting as anxiety and pain. You find the world confusing. You know it’s messed up and you don’t know what to do about it. You feel powerless to make a difference. Don’t say anything, you don’t have to. I can tell from your face that it’s true. That’s why you came to see me, isn’t it? Of course. I can help you if you stick around, it takes a while to undo the damage of years of mis-education, and even then the most likely outcome is that you’ll slip back into your old ways. That’s why I’m making a transcript of our time together, something for you to reread and something for others to learn from too. Some can’t reach me like you do, their minds just aren’t ready yet. So you see, just by being here you’re doing something great. I knew you were someone special from the start, I just knew!
If fear was an animal, something you could put a face on, and you knew that in order for you to have a life of some sort of bliss or peace that you had to kill it. The only thing that you could kill that animal with was knowledge; that is the only thing that could kill that animal. And it is like a growth on you that you can't seem to get rid of; and that fear is just so overwhelming. Because fear is about despair, it's about looking into the darkness and not seeing...
“Let’s go have a drink and you can tell me all about your day.” I reach my hand out to his.
He looks away, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. Rolling his shoulder’s forward, he looks at my hand hovering in the air. Fear bubbles up in my chest, but I can’t let it show.
“Come,” I say, grabbing his hand, expecting to tug an unmovable boulder—relieved when he allows me to lead him out the door. I lock it behind us. Although every nerve in my body is tingling, I feel in control, so far.
Fear is an illusion, but not an amusing one brought about by a conjuring trick. Fear locks onto what you love most and makes you terrified of loss of Love. It taunts you that the harder you love now, the more pain and trauma will be there later on. It cuts us off from love. In this state of fear we are easy prey to hate, greed, anger, loneliness, despair.
Fear is the reason the world is the way it is, fear that God will not love you if you follow the wrong set of rules. But if God is Love, and I believe He is, then the only thing you have to fear is fear itself, for in this state you are unable to feel Love and the connection with the divine is lost. It is when you feel Love that you are in accordance with God's will and you can start in your own small way to make His planet a better place.
God is with us always when we express Love and this Earth is our only home. We can make it Heaven on Earth, as the Lords Prayer asks, or we can carry on being beings ruled by fear, running as a herd every time the wolf bares his teeth instead of refusing to take the misdirection given and thinking as an individual. If humans were as difficult to heard as cats the world would be an infinitely better place. We should be embracing philosophy, ethical debate, ending the "prison planet" we're creating. We lock up and abuse animals in our food industry, we treat humans like they were no more than cogs in giant corporate wheels, we treat children like baggage being passed between daycare and schools. We belittle the pains of others.
We teach children to love animals and care for pets and then serve them meat for dinner. We have so little time for them we shut their emotions down instead of helping them to understand them, pressurize them and then have the gaul to label them "problem kids." The problem isn't the kids, the problem is parents shut down by fear unable to teach through Love, and in so doing damaging their kids.
Fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She didn’t doubt the feeling was there to stay, reminding her of its existence every time she opened her mouth to breathe.
Pure terror surged through her veins, icy daggers straight to the heart. The fear she’d felt on the island was nothing compared to how she felt now. Now she was being held underwater, gasping for air but not being able to do a damn thing about it. She thought that maybe it would be better if she drowned. At least then the nightmare would be over.
I am fear. I have known you since you first saw the light of day. I have prevented you from getting better positions in your work. All I did was make you afraid to ask or apply for them. I have kept you awake many nights by giving you horrible thoughts about your future. I quiet laughter right out of your mouth when I whisper that you will soon lose everything. My implanted thoughts wipe the joy off your face. I shatter your confidence when you stand to give a speech. You stand there, panic in your eyes, twisting in the wind. It is so funny. Often, I have been able to drag you around like a rag doll. I don't control you completely yet, but soon. Why do I do it? I am fear. If you defeated me, the door to a new world would swing wide open for you.
You poured gasoline onto the spark of fear in my belly. It's not like you thought was alright; I was far away from any inner peace. You took words and fashioned them into a knife, sinking it in with cold black eyes. All I ever did was offer you my hand. All I ever did was offer love and ask for help.
For Sophie her greatest fear wasn’t death, or pain, or other people. It was herself.
Paralyzed in fear, the scent of perturbation invaded the room. My terrorized feet refused to move and all my hands agreed to do was cover my frightened face. I've never wanted to be so safe in my life. I coughed. Immediately, my cough echoed with my cough constantly repeated, quieter every time through the dark and gloomy room. I knew the room must be big, very big and I knew my nightmare was coming soon, very soon...