Anxious.

It is never just about making it through the anxiety, but it always is.

Undefined, like a wet beach towel wrapped around you underwater. The spin cycle.

Logic cannot stop it. Every inane stupid thought fuels it.

Split in two.

One of me trapped and worried and spinning.

The other me working and smiling.

It will pass.

Right now I do not care.

Feels like everything is collapsing.

Like I am forced to trudge up a hill and see I am never making progress,

make it steep,

make it muddy,

that feels right.

Welcome to my racing heartbeat at seven am.

Like I am locked in some unseen struggle while I sit at my desk doing nothing.

Anxiety quickly turns to rage and I reflect on every little injustice.

Real or imagined

same, same.

Breathe Just fucking breathe.

--

--

Some days I hate writing!

It feels like a splinter stuck in my head.

I have nothing to say.

I write anyway.

Where do you go when there is nowhere to go?

It feels like making a bed. Pointless.

Exhausting.

Redundant.

I still do it.

Sometimes.

Who cares anyway?

It feels like the rides running empty and dark at Disney land.

Trees are falling in the forest and all I hear is silence.

--

--

Chris Aldernator

Chris Aldernator

Doing anything I can everyday to pursue a passion for writing. I am a long term recovering heroin addict. I found the right people in the right places.