I’m afraid of everything, but yet still I write.
What I write, though, is redundant.
It says nothing to me and even less to you, but isn’t that something? Heidegger got that wrong.
If I knew the truth, I wouldn’t tell you, as the truth is less certain than a lie. I can control the lie, or so I tell myself. That’s the fear of freedom. The fear of being found out.