He always said, I am afraid, I am afraid, but that was not the whole story. He was afraid, its true, he was afraid of everything, he was always afraid – except when he was not afraid at all, and then he was not afraid of anything. He was pathologically brave.
It didn’t happen very often. But even to be pathologically brave for thirty minutes could have far-reaching effects. Especially since that brave person plotted while it lurked in the background and sprang up prepared to book flight tickets, interviews, or liaisons.
The brave person made decisions and left the fearful person to carry them out. It was sadistic really. The poor fearful person spent his life running errands for the brave person, who always had some sort of scheme. The fearful person wanted only to stay home, with the door locked, but the brave person sent him, trembling, all over the world.
Sometimes people became so confused that they said to him, in all seriousness, you are brave. He wanted to say, No, I am afraid, I am the slave of a brave person. He wanted to tell them this, but he was afraid.