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i write in fear. i write in strong unenviable fear.

i find myself not under threat from anything other than myself. but it is enough to put fear on the cusp of invading my very being.

i am so afraid of that which we all strive for. and feel that, rather sensibly and against my past i shall jump ashore, put my shoes back on, unzip the wetsuit and steal on a t-shirt. i'll then tramp back up the dune to the camp, and have a hot chocolate and shut myself away in the tent.

zipped up.

shut up.

closed off.

and i'll do the Telegraph cryptic crossword. it shall occupy my mind, and the thought of what anagram i can make from "gent's meal" shall be my only thought. my only thought. i shall listen to sigur ros on my music device, and float, drift, abstract myself away.

and for how long? for supplies are there for me to stay a while, a long while perhaps. how long it shall take until i can put the wetsuit back on, i know not.

but it's wise. the sea is choppy, unpredictable, rough. and i can't let it happen again.

not again.

really, not again.

but am i being cowardly, am i following walt, or is that marrow of life not being sucked out. am i living life deliberately or merely carefully?

care. i think that's a good way to behave, with care.

but is that what He wants? who knows. let's hand it to Him and see.

to surf or to crossword?