A book as odd and as frightening as the fears inside it. It is small enough to always carry with you, frayed and worn down with use and time. Closed, it is plain-looking, forgettable. Open, it unfurls like a fan, or an explosion, or a gaping mouth.
Most pages are crammed with an unpunctuated babble of fears, some silly, some deadly serious; but for a few pages, I tried to represent a single fear.
Though we are often taught to ignore or push away our fears, I like to allow myself to acknowledge them every now and then (or perhaps I cannot help myself). I take that horrid little book out of my back pocket and open up all its horrid, not-so-little pages and peek at what’s inside, before forcing it shut and tucking it away again.