I mourn the loss of things I never had and for the ideal I never wanted, burdening me like a life time of unchosen responsibility, temporarily anchoring me in a tidal harbour, it’s waters imbued with the sadness of a thousand losses. Anchors rise and fall like the ebb and flow of the sea and with them the joy and turmoil of life.
She lurks in the shadows and relentlessly pursues my company, I hear her movements as she prowls, awaiting me around every corner, haunting my every move. She awakes me in the night thundering at the door, wailing like a banshee foretelling my demise. I see her everyday glaring at me with unending wanting and I say, not today cat, not today.
I have been on anti-anxiety meds for a few month now and I noticed that it felt like my thoughts were hitting a giant spongy wall.. My thoughts had nowhere to go, they couldn’t spiral and complete and I eventually started having panic attacks (which I never had before). I stopped taking them a few days ago and I feel better now that emotional thought cage has been removed from my mind, I am free to think as I please.. I got my brain back.
We all strive to be happy and one of my many improbable ideals is to be a writer but I have stumbled into a creative paradox; I can’t write when I am happy. It is the torture and torment of life that gives me the fuel to extract my thoughts and translate into readable word form. So here is my predicament.. If I want to write do I strive for a life of misery and torment?