It was not Fear

It was not fear of death. Or at least, not fear of my own death. It was--and still is--fear of all deaths, as the sum of each individual death: of what I think, of the people I love, of the animals I cuddle, of the dreams I invent, of unfulfilled desires, of unborn aspirations,  of all that was never said or never lived, of the mornings I wake up ready to conquer the world, of the nights when tears chase away the nightmares, of the trees that may not thrive again next year, or of whether I will be there to see them, of the inconsequential objects that have been with me for a while and with whom I've shared days and nights, of the tiny moments that are constantly dying and no one doubts will never return.

Translated by Lina Strenio