On Fear, Loneliness, and Being an Outsider
“Get along well with loneliness;
perhaps one day you will need its company,
and trust me, it is a good friend.
It does not lie to you,
listens to you in silence,
and even reveals to you your courage—
that very courage which, one day, you believed did not exist.”
– Cristina Barriento
Isolation has long been employed as a form of punishment—varying in severity—for both children and adults. When left to nature’s mercy, it was almost tantamount to a death sentence.
Today, social isolation kills in a different way. A child locked in a dark chamber is forced to confront their fears, with no indication of when rescue might come. At first glance, it may seem impossible to strike a bargain with such a dreadful condition. Yet some of us are inexplicably drawn to it. There is even a term for it—nyctophilia—meaning a love of darkness.
Mentioning these subjects easily conjures grim, satanic images. Generation X—whose youth coincided with the rise of metal music and Satanism—has been examined in two recently published works (Katri Ylinen’s Satanic Panic and Tuomas Äystö’s The Devil’s Heirs). In the 1990s, this phenomenon led in Finland to what became known as a satanic ritual abuse—or moral—panic, with fears that dangerous cults practicing satanic rites were operating in our country, modeled after the American example. Such thinking found particularly fertile ground among revivalist movements.
A dualistic mindset divides the tumultuous masses much like Moses’ staff parts the waters, ensuring that darkness and light can never merge. Occultism—that is, secret knowledge—is, by its very nature, easily condemned as belonging to the dark side, with darkness regarded as synonymous with evil. This troubled me, and I have since striven to tear down that veil—if only someone dares to peer into the recesses of a dark mind.
Fortunately, medicine comes to our aid. Following the media, one increasingly hears about neurodiversity. Due to the diversity of minds, some individuals’ neurological functioning or way of thinking deviates from what is considered typical. Such a person may therefore process fear differently, making them distinct in extreme circumstances. I vividly remember that, as a child, I dreamed of the solitude of dark places—a quiet refuge for contemplation. Yet when stories circulated of children locked away in chambers, I found it hard to understand their plight.
As the state of the world grows ever more unpredictable, a diminished emotional response can be beneficial, providing better leverage for accurately assessing threats. Thanks to their atypical wiring, some are better able to suppress panic in a crisis—a trait that benefits both the individual and the community. For example, in ADHD, a dopamine surge shifts the focus from fear to problem-solving. These very qualities are taught to professional soldiers for the protection of everyone. It is no wonder, then, that a neurodivergent person might choose a military career, guided by their natural abilities.
What risks does this entail, then? They are hardly those satanic, conspiratorial horror images painted in the 1990s. Fate, however, is unkind to all. And if someone possesses such a neurological special toolkit, they might experience an ordinary, good life as maddeningly dull. Even though a perceptive individual may dismiss this as a mere illusion, those intensely sought-after extraordinary experiences remain elusive. This, in turn, can lead to risk-seeking behavior, where impulsivity and recklessness overpower tactical foresight.
I am reminded of my spouse’s comment that I possess the temperament of a fighter pilot. Consider Manfred von Richthofen—the Red Baron—who became a fighter ace in World War I by shooting down 80 enemy aircraft with his Fokker. While reading his memoirs (The Red Fighter), I wondered how difficult it would be for him to relinquish such a career and transition into a serene noble life as a vibrant 25-year-old. That fate did not befall him; a fatal bullet pierced his brave heart during a combat flight over the Somme. Many other soldiers returning from battle have suffered in the confines of consensus reality in his wake. Perhaps some recall the meme proclaiming that peace breeds weak people—a notion that, in the end, leads to devastating war. Here, we witness a natural cycle.
But let us return to fear. What does it mean? It is an innate defense mechanism that alerts us to potential danger—compelling both humans and animals to fight, flee, or freeze. An individual’s personal history, cultural context, and temperament all influence how fear is experienced and managed.
Common threats include predatory animals, heights, and the very darkness I yearn for. It is no wonder that the forest was once perceived as highly menacing—and I wonder how estranged today’s green city-dweller might feel about it. In interpersonal settings, fears often arise from social situations. Yet that is not all; there is also a sacred terror made famous by the German religious studies scholar Rudolf Otto. He described religious consciousness as a fusion of divine terror and fascination. In this context, fear is intertwined with a sense of reverence—a natural response when faced with forces far beyond human vulnerability. Before such a mysterious encounter with the ineffable, one often finds oneself in a liminal state, where the boundaries between the known and the unknown blur. It is no wonder that an ordinary person might experience existential uncertainty—or even outright terror—at that juncture.
Of course, most people do not encounter such extremes. The illusion of normalcy can provide a framework for concealing one’s fear, though it may also manifest in rather disconcerting ways. Hate speech on social media and unbridled boasting cannot withstand the test of reality; few succumb to these in person. Still, it is worth remembering that the power fantasies cultivated in virtual reality can deliver a cold jolt when confronted with the full force of 4D reality—in other words, at the extreme margins. What, for instance, happens when an enemy truly attacks? Will online threats prove costly when a man is genuinely put to the test? Recall that, driven by fear, people engage in such maneuvers while safety and familiarity still prevail—but in the extreme liminal, there are no rules. It is much like ending up sparring in the ring with a professional or falling victim to a street mugger. For such masquerades, keeping up with social media can sometimes feel overwhelming when one sees through the excessively ostentatious selfies.
Fear is clearly a multifaceted emotion. Understanding its many dimensions not only helps us grasp normal adaptive behavior but also aids in addressing pathological conditions—when fear becomes maladaptive. In anxiety disorders, phobias, or post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), this integrated system can become dysregulated, leading to excessive or inappropriate fear responses. The latter first came to light in connection with World I’s battle fatigue and soldiers wounded by shrapnel. Initially misunderstood, over 100,000 cases were eventually recorded in Europe under the label “combat neurosis.”
When contemplating fear, one must look back to the dawn of human history—when we lived as hunter–gatherers under a constant state of emergency. In many ways, our existence then resembled that of wild animals, perpetually alert to threats. In contrast, we have become like domesticated pets, tamed by consensus reality and peace. Our pet-like lifestyle has led us to imagine that the purpose of life is the attainment of happiness—a notion apparently dictated by “the heart,” for our cave-dwelling brains know nothing of it. They still carry the genetic burden of an era when we were exposed to relentless threats—predation, wars, and countless environmental dangers. Alertness and adaptability were essential.
This continuous exposure likely left genetic “scars” on our ancestors, and our brains still bear these marks. Such inherited traits may predispose individuals to seek out intense, sensory-rich, and dark artistic experiences as a way to resonate with—or reinterpret—the raw forces that once secured survival. Alongside genetics, neurodivergent or trauma-affected individuals feel drawn to extreme art forms. These forms offer a chance to feel deeply and to externalize inner chaos, providing coherence to otherwise fragmented experiences. While an ordinary person might balk at such interests, a neurodivergent individual recognizes something familiar and cathartic in occultism, grim existential philosophies, horror, science fiction, and even the feared black metal scene.
Throughout history, fear has been exploited to manipulate people—not only in art or entertainment. Even though the Christian clergy have long extinguished the flames of hell in their sermons, threats remain a potent tool of political rhetoric. More brazenly, the sowing of terror is the very aim of terrorism. Yet it is crucial to distinguish fear from the existential anxiety that has no clear external cause.
If someone views the creators and audience of dark art as rebels, perhaps they are—but what is the alternative? In mainstream culture, forced positivity is demanded, leaving those who do not conform undernourished, as their suffering cannot easily be incorporated into conventional narratives of recovery. As a painter, I am constantly confronted with curators’ wishes for me to create cheerful, brightly colored, positively energetic yellow floral compositions. Meanwhile, my own meadows are soaked with blood beneath a night sky that looms over Ukraine’s withered sunflower fields. One can reject the cult of positivity in favor of dark art—embracing its extreme aesthetics. The most nourishing sustenance for the soul may well be found in cosmic horror and nihilistic philosophy. Rather than succumbing to self-destructive habits, one can process one’s emotions in the company of thinkers like Emil Cioran and Peter Wessel Zapffe, whose words resonate in an eternal void.
A long-standing piece of advice for those suffering from phobias has been to confront one’s fear. It is comforting to know that even brave heroes are sometimes afraid—and yet that does not stop them from acting. So if you feel fear, cling tenaciously to the actions that matter to you.
Then, why can dark art be considered extreme? Research suggests that horror appeals to individuals with high sensation-seeking personalities, meaning they require more intense stimuli for emotional arousal. At their best, such people can free themselves from fear instead of living as its passive underlings in the real world. Antinatalist thinkers argue that human consciousness is an evolutionary flaw that produces unbearable suffering, a view readily endorsed by neurodivergent, analytical individuals who find it naïve to exalt anything human to lofty heights in this absurd existence. It is what it is.
The theme is also familiar in Gothic and Lovecraftian horror—in which humanity is portrayed as an anomaly in an indifferent universe. This cosmic alienation perhaps unites us most deeply—at least those of us dark children of the night who have been freed from utopian hope. Brutal honesty about extraordinary circumstances acknowledges our pain without rejection. Ordinary citizens steer clear of the abyss of darkness in their fears, but we who dwell there consider it the only rational refuge.
Horror writer Thomas Ligotti stated aptly in his novella Medusa,
”We can only hide from horror in the heart of horror.”
Psychic trauma causes undeniable pain and can disrupt sensory processing, emotional regulation, and interpersonal functioning. Yet both innate and later-acquired trauma can be remedied through horror, thereby unleashing human potential. If the afflicted is an artist, they may find themselves possessed by a daemonic force—and through their work, contribute to the healing of others’ souls. The occultist takes it even further. To him, the chaotic world appears imbued with meaning, where one can forge a personal mythology and distill, at its zenith, a sacred experience from one’s traumas. Brains attuned to extremes then receive the most potent neurochemical reward. If one so chooses, anyone can shatter their fear patterns by repeatedly exposing themselves to controlled horror.
Identity politics is very much a phenomenon of our time—perhaps even more harmful than what occurred in the 1990s. Whether we like it or not, even we dark-minded artists and those like us possess an identity that thrives most freely in darkness. It is from that darkness that we find our own kind of light, as the Romanian religious studies scholar Mircea Eliade once said:
”Light does not come from light, but from darkness.”