A fear is a funny thing. It’s a thing you have: I have a a pen pal in Thailand who has a dog with a fear of heights. Fear sounds like the humming of the elevator shaft when inactive and like elevator music when activated. To get over a fear means to no longer be under it, carrying it like a huge backpack; up a steep mountain hill, in July, in the south of France with an ex- boyfriend that smells of beer. If fear was made out of matter it would be the hugest backpack ever, made out of your own skin and bones. It would sit in your chest humming elevator music. To no longer carry the fear means to no longer be the same person. All fears are ultimately one.