the mischief of anxiety

Although I entirely understand that do-happy-things such as meditation, frolicing, music, writing, reading, drawing, creating, dancing, singing, painting your face blue, collaging beat down cars, molding ceramic penis’s, infinite kale avocado beet sandwiches, tea oceans, and what have you will infinitely in the long run open you to this glorious sense of purpose and not even that, but blissful, silenced happiness (so much love). I feel as though being diagnosed with anxiety or depression (from a doctor, therapist, etc, past experiences talking here) can enhance it. , make it somehow more tangible - as you call a newborn a name to give it an identity and it feels more real, more you. Although, you have had the feeling right there, from the webs between your toes to your talons, you needed it more tangible, you needed that identity to know that you aren’t entirely out of whack or to reiterate that you are. It can be a leech, a turntable cycling the dance floor

That’s what it is; a blister boiling milk on your skin in the eyes of the sun. It has the ability to entirely mess up your world, within a matter of seconds. The fun part is, is you never see it coming, it backlashes you and you’ve gone completely insane this time. The energy being harbored in that anxiety will spread to the others around you that you encounter. You are insane, your heart is exploding in its cave home! What sensitivity she has! They’ll take a gander, but they won’t stay for long (unless they are rooted so dearly, bless you). They take the train the opposite direction you are going, trying to peek glances from the back of their glasses, figure something out about you. Too eager/too sensitive/too emotional/too shakey/too needy/too nuts/too incapable of expressing the thoughts that are pouring in your brain cavity but won’t leave and won’t swirl to form whole sentences. If the symbols showed up and they brushed passed your teeth and hit air - people would run anyway, they would run like a butcher’s dog. You would wish you could have swallowed your tongue just enough so it would lodge in your throat, at least for a second so you could find that calming sensation, the one that calls on the ancients to bring you into bed.

Then you try to talk or you try to tell who will listen but no one wants to listen to your weird anxiety riddled poetry that isn’t even real. So eventually, you never end up saying anything anymore, afraid to be brushed off, swept back into your mythical world, where you finally decided to venture out of. So you stay alone, and then someone comes along and offers to hang out or to have some fun and you can sense the fun but you don’t want to taste it. Was it bitter? It must have been to bring me here. You can no longer leave this realm because you have recycled yourself here again, as waste and people don’t like looking/talking/smelling waste in public. So you sit at home and your heart beat is reverberating off the walls. You are too-something, that is too-something, this is too-something. A broken vase that misplaced her glue.