March 11, 2012
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This graveyard wasn’t as scary as I expected. The weather was magnificent and infallible. The soft breeze running through my hair, and the soft ground beneath my feet, we approached the grave.
My grandfather, my dad, and I went to my great grandfather’s grave a week before we would be leaving to America. On the tombstone, his name was engraved, and the names of his children inscribed neatly. My dad had carefully placed the impeccable, glowing white flowers, and a green tiny frog had leaped silently with stealth onto the tombstone. My grandfather gave me a warm smile and hoisted me onto his shoulder. He whispered humorously, “Poke it. Try.” As my finger steadily drew nearer, the little beast leaped toward my nose, barely missing it by an inch. My body exploded with fear and terror. I was screaming for my life. I was bawling while my dad and grandfather were laughing, grinning to themselves. Like a normal human instinct, I stopped crying and started laughing as well.
My grandfather wistfully wiped away my tears and wiping away the pain. He spoke softly, “Do not be afraid of anything.” From that day, I finally was introduced to my greatest enemy, my ruthless, unforgiving rival. I knew this war would be ceaseless, and with that followed my mask. Something to hide in. Something that became very useful for keeping to myself. With that in mind for the past 12 years, I attempted to evade him. I also knew him as something named ‘Fear’.

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