So what, if anything, am I scared of?
Well I guess I’m a now a thirty-seven year old single man, with no real ties anywhere and so there must be a certain fear of dying alone. I do look at those people of my generation with the happy home and the happy spouse and the happy kids, and wonder what’s the matter with me that I haven’t taken that route? And does the fact I’ve missed so many signs to head down that road mean I don’t really want it? After all there's never been a point in my life where I felt the desperate need to have a church wedding and some little ‘uns. It’s always been something for the future, something I could consider for far away and not worry about now. But is there a fear, as I get older, that that far away may never come.
What else could it be? Well I guess the fact that I’ve spent so much of my life’s time writing (to the detriment of my career and, let’s be honest, my personal life) probably gives me the fear that none of it was worthwhile. That I am destined to be your failed novelist, buried in a pauper’s grave and not really remembered even by the people who met me.
But would these personal fears really be enough for my imagination to end the world for me each and every night? Surely I would dream about those problems in my life; not something larger, more spectacular and involving so many other people.
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