If somebody asks me what I hate the most, it’s probably not heights, not cockroaches nor geckos, and definitely not darkness. Mainly because it’s my old friend. Cliché, I know.

It’s the not-knowing state of mind that I dreaded the most.

The hollowness inside your chest when you were thrown in the air and not knowing where you’ll fall, or whether you ever will.

The tossing and turning nights after nights thinking what could have been if you had done things a bit differently.

The indecision weighing on your shoulders when you are standing on the intersection where two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

The unbreathable mist that keeps preventing you from seeing what’s ahead of you even though it might be five feet away.

So, you have no choice but to fumble and stumble into the unknown path and, basically, hope for the best.

That’s the only thing you can do. HOPING.

And, come to think of it, that’s actually what I hate the most.