The un-named, the ineffable, the “I can’t forget about it, no matter how hard I try.” Whatever it is this thing is supposed to be, I’m assuming it’s something so obtrusively terrifying to me that I might actually blanch at the thought of saying the world aloud. There are two things that fill me to the brim with paralyzing fear. I can easily put names to them, and I think that is what heightens my anxiety about the subjects. The key sources of my eternal dread are no longer abstract thoughts swirling sickeningly in my head; they have names and definitions, yet are so intangible I can’t fathom how they could possibly exist. How can you exercise control over something that can only be contrived in the chemical makeup of your brain?

No, my greatest fear is not a lack of control, though it is irksome and my least favorite thing to deal with. I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I hardly have control over anything in my life. So thankfully, I am not rendered useless by the fact that most things are out of my control.

My first, but not most omnipotent fear, is time. The ubiquitous, ceaseless ticking keeping track of anything and everything. And before you let your imagination get the best of you, I’m not implying that if you were to chase me around with a stopwatch I’ll burst into tears or faint with terror. The panic-inducing fact about time is that there is never enough of it, yet it’s never ending. Infinite, nonexistent, time. Time simply begins when we do, an invisible internal clock, its ticking mimicked by your heartbeat, and one day it will stop in some indeterminable point in the future. I don’t know how much time I have to live. If I was born at the time I was meant to die, at the oldest I was ever meant to be, and lived my life backward into the form of a single-celled organism, I would gladly do it. Maybe then I would be able to plan my life around the time I’ve been allotted.

However, I am not Benjamin Button. I am stuck in this wretched forward-facing life, surrounded by clocks ticking down the seconds I may or may not have left. I could die in 50 years, or in two months, or tomorrow, or in the next 14 minutes from now. I could be defunct before I get the chance to finish this very sentence. My hourglass could be spilling its last grain of sand… Now what?

I’m afraid of not having enough time. If I were to die right now, what would I have accomplished? I’m still too young to be trusted to partake in ‘adult’ affairs, and I’ve already passed the blissful ignorance of sugar-filled youth. All I have is an education I haven’t yet been able to use, and a desire for what the future has to offer. I’m not afraid to face death. Dying is real, and death is coming for each of us whether we like it or not. It’s a silly thing to worry about. I’m not afraid of the future, nor am I expectant of it. I strive to plan for every possible outcome, but I’m terrible at it, because I honestly don’t know what to expect, or who will be around to witness the fruition of my plans. I know I’m supposed to do things in my life, but I don’t know if I want to. Even if I did happen to wish to execute some wonderful something, what’s the point of preparing for it if it may never happen?

I’m supposed to go to high school to go to college to get a job. I’m supposed to fall in love to get married to procreate. What if I don’t want to? What if I don’t have enough time to do all that? I’ve spent all my youth preparing for a life I’ll never get to live.

Time is strange, anyway. How is anyone to know if it actually exists? Who decided to glorify and solidify some concepts but not others? Is time real, or do we just think it is because we are so used to looking to clocks to gauge our lives?

I am so incredibly terrified that I won’t have the time to experience my life the way I want to… but I’m even more frightened that right now is all the time I’ve been given.