Anxiety— Part I
I don’t want this to sound artistic in any sense. There’s definitely no aesthetic in having anxiety.
So here goes nothing.
I do not wish my only resort was to pour my heart out on cyber paper to cyber people, so many of which i’ll never get the chance to meet and have a decent conversation with, but here we are.
Anxiety.
The word is so overused that the letters lost their authenticity. But its effect? Let my trembling hands write down a story of a beginning that keeps shriveling and withering, becoming an end way sooner than it should have. This is a story of no content, just the blabber of a broken heart, a heart that is too aware of every shard parting off.
I’m done with wishes and hopes, and dare I say, prayers. I think the universe might have lost hope in so many of its inhabitants and i’m no exception. So we’re left to float. To exist among people way stronger, intimidating and solid than our wildest, most fictional dreams will ever illustrate us. We do not belong with the weak. We do not belong with the weak.
We moulded them. We made them. With a heart beating our chests open, with thoughts shooting fire down our spines, and with nothing. We own nothing. So much of that nothing in every aspect in life. Do we love? Have we been loved? Are we succeeding? Are we hoping? Nothing.
Are you scared of the future? Mama, i’m afraid of living this very moment. I’m afraid of having to drag myself to the next moment. I’m too afraid to be happy, and too fed up of being sad. Mama, do you want the sugar-coat or the raw stinking meat? The answers are crystal clear.
Shall we dance tonight? Or should we fight that battle you told me I should fight? Do you think i’m strong or did I deceive you well enough that my figure looked glorious in the blinding sun?
These thoughts, they’re a train, a wreck of a train that keeps crashing. Give me a break.
So here goes nothing.
I do not wish my only resort was to pour my heart out on cyber paper to cyber people, so many of which i’ll never get the chance to meet and have a decent conversation with, but here we are.
Anxiety.
The word is so overused that the letters lost their authenticity. But its effect? Let my trembling hands write down a story of a beginning that keeps shriveling and withering, becoming an end way sooner than it should have. This is a story of no content, just the blabber of a broken heart, a heart that is too aware of every shard parting off.
I’m done with wishes and hopes, and dare I say, prayers. I think the universe might have lost hope in so many of its inhabitants and i’m no exception. So we’re left to float. To exist among people way stronger, intimidating and solid than our wildest, most fictional dreams will ever illustrate us. We do not belong with the weak. We do not belong with the weak.
We moulded them. We made them. With a heart beating our chests open, with thoughts shooting fire down our spines, and with nothing. We own nothing. So much of that nothing in every aspect in life. Do we love? Have we been loved? Are we succeeding? Are we hoping? Nothing.
Are you scared of the future? Mama, i’m afraid of living this very moment. I’m afraid of having to drag myself to the next moment. I’m too afraid to be happy, and too fed up of being sad. Mama, do you want the sugar-coat or the raw stinking meat? The answers are crystal clear.
Shall we dance tonight? Or should we fight that battle you told me I should fight? Do you think i’m strong or did I deceive you well enough that my figure looked glorious in the blinding sun?
These thoughts, they’re a train, a wreck of a train that keeps crashing. Give me a break.
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