Fear in the modern sense of the word is now almost called the Big C. Fear that lives in the back shelf, by all intent, with utmost will, creeps in to the center almost to the right, smack dab eye-level and it carries a nametag. “Hi, I am Big C”. Nothing spectacular. Not like the big guy on campus you’d smell the waft of his men’s cologne a mile away. Big is almost diminutive. Almost un-extroverted. Somewhat like that creepy crawley spider knotting its way through the different angles of your room until you notice the invisible, silver threads hitting your face saying “I’m here. I’m here!” And then there he is. Your newfound friend. Your constant companion. Fabricating fairy tales and stories with vague endings. Making you laugh. Sometimes cry. Sometimes worried. Giving you bags under your eyes but you try to drink your caramel machiatto or your the cheapest hot tea by the side of tempting doughnuts and you drink until that rawness of your throat soothes into oblivion. He holds your hand. He participates in your prayers. He is there. Fearing your same fears. Whispering to you an indomitable hope. Rending you wordless until you express yourself in abstract fullness. Fear in the modern sense of the word is almost called Big C. It is if you call it that.