Let me tell you something about that psychopath friend of mine, Fear. The first time I met him (or her? It changes it’s mind all the time), I distinctly remember, was in a disguise of an unknown noise, that of the waste collector car, a strange image on a clock, a couple of nuns turning round the curner and eventually culminating in a recurring nightmare where I would stand in a burning church and a crucifix would crush me just before I would wake up. Quickly, Fear became something I got used to, …or as I tend to think now, made myself get used to. Even back then, so young, subconsciously, I think I decided what I ‘d like to freak out about and get scared stiff of. When I was a little older, Fear gave off the smell of sweat, cold, dripping sweat down my spine, moist hands and a loud beating heart. It also took care of the fact, a lot of things I might have done, I did not because I let Fear overrule me. It became even tangible … Other people could smell it, I noticed. And for some, Fear in others is a welcome gift. I guess it means they do not have to be seen with, or associated with Fear themselves that way or be confronted with their own fears. In the meantime, that crazy bitch had become kind of a hysterical, mad friend! – this was a stalking , obtrusive, persistent, obsessive nut-case the kind that will sit on your lap in bed and whisper in your ear while you’re on public transport. Thus, Fear was almost there all the time. When she or he was not to be found, I would look it up. (Guess I was also curious about what manifestation it would show itself now!) …A frightening story, screeching strings, full moon, knives, fire, church-bells became my Pavlov bell…An already obsessive and masochist landscape was filled with Trees of Anxiety and a Sky of Disquietude. In the long run, I think it became sort of attached to my soul, my perception. As I am about to turn forty, after having seen barking Dobermans, the corpses of cats, China dolls in blood, the hatred of men in their eyes, a rope on a tree at night, being chased by cars and self-inflicted wounds, the plain and simple horror of life in my imagination and in reality, warm tears tell me that it does not need to be this way …. Finding out that the only one feeding it was myself, and I was convinced I needed to still my hunger with the same. ..Now I realize I can demote Fear’s importance, not try to get rid of it, or deny it, but make it less important in my heart. For Fear thought it had found an eternal place there, yet to my relief, and surprise, it’s place was only temporary.