Athazagoraphobia

You hit ‘submit’ and you wait and in this waiting words and meanings become echos and they fade and fade away. The half-life of a thought increases, written down, but without reading, repetition, rewording, it approaches almost never was.

The amount of energy it takes to be ignored does not have an upper limit, and the destruction of energy is possible: just take a billion or so individual pairs of eyes choosing either actively or passively to not care or not notice, respectively.

Five minutes since and still nothing — just the stinging feeling of personal betrayal as a gamified system fails over and over again moment after moment to keep its unspoken promise of instant gratification through which to temporarily pacify a restless mind.

You walk away and let another five minutes pass. There are chores and other busy work to help time become unstuck. You wait to relight a tiny screen, knowing, hoping, unconvincingly convincing yourself that you will return to still-increasing numbers in tiny red circles, if only you could wait.

It’s not the fear of life and trying, it’s the fear of a living death and dying unknown or under-appreciated or with a superinflated self-image that doesn’t match your mirror. It’s not the fear of criticism, it’s the fear of a lack there of: it’s a fear of being so insignificant that there is no need to respond.

You reread the words you wrote and edited and reread and reread already only to realize your worst fear — the only fear that is bigger than the fading and the wasted effort and the living death of obscurity: there is a typo.

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