I’m afraid.  I’m afraid that I’ll never find my true love.  I’m afraid that I’ll never find my style.  I’m afraid that I’ll never make a difference, cause change.  I’m afraid I’ll never stop mimicking the art of others.  I’m afraid I’ll never be found.  I’m afraid that I’ll never find true love; or true heartbreak, for that matter.  I’m afraid I’ll never start something; something-life altering.  I’m afraid I’ll grow up after my friends do.  I’m afraid that I’ll be left behind; still at the start, trying to figure out which foot goes first: left or right?  I’m afraid I’ll never find the other part of me that’s hiding in the voices in the back of my head.  I’m afraid I’ll lose everything.  I’m afraid that I will never be fucked up enough to amount to something truly great.  I’m afraid that I’ll always be figuring out why I do the things I do; why I am the way I am.  I am afraid that I will never figure out what’s best for me until I wake up one morning in a stranger’s bed with a killer headache; until it’s too late.  I’m afraid that I will lose touch with my friends, loosening my grip on reality in the process.  I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to get rid of my obnoxious security blanket.  I’m afraid that I’ll never my voice.  I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to sit down with my loved ones and tell them the truth, because I don’t know the full story.  I’m afraid I’ll lose control of my thoughts and lose something worthwhile because I produce something useless.  Mostly, I’m afraid that I’ll end up one of those people in a status-quo, 9-5 job because I never found (the rest of) myself.  I’ll end up wearing horribly masculine, disgustingly matching suits, sitting in my 6 by 6 cubicle wondering what I never did to deserve this.  I’m afraid I’ll be one of those people with unexplainably, soul-wrenching, sad eyes because I couldn’t decide what to be soon enough.