To Whom it May Concern:
I am deathly afraid. It is a fear which haunts me even in sleep; it grips the very heart and soul of me and refuses me respite. It is a fear which prevents me from living the life I was - or, at least, believed myself to be - intended to live. It is a fear which shakes my foundations and rattles me to the core, leaving me gasping for breath, palms clammy, muscles taught, jaw clenched, heart pounding. And now I am forced to face my own certain death once again.
Psychologists call it a "phobia." It is irrational at best. I know it is illogical, unreasonable; that it constitutes something within myself that I am completely and totally unable to control. I have a decisive lack of conscious willpower over one tiny unconscious thought, and so that one tiny thought is able to spread fear throughout my psyche as one small drop of yeast leavens the whole loaf of bread. Whatever the cause, the symptoms are obvious.
And so I am writing to request two things of those who know me and would call me friend. I am convinced, due in totality to this unnamed fear, that I will not live to see the sun rise on Monday morning. I humbly ask these two favors, then: that my book manuscript be published, and that my thesis be submitted. If, then, the world awakes to a new week in which I am no longer present, a legacy of me may still exist. Perhaps prideful or selfish, I know, but I fear being unable to complete those works which I have set out to do before my time ceases.
This is the last and most painful wish of a weak and frightened human being.
With all my love,
16 hours ago