Too much. Much too much I bellow, silent in unsteady freefall flux. Too much pressure, too much information, too far behind in so many ways. Anxiety comes with this, but not in direct proportion. Reactions shape-shift in ways I can't figure, obscured, with only occasional tangiblity.
Light beckons at the ends of countless tunnels, ever distant, tantalizing, bedecked in promises of attainablity. I overthink, underact, put too much stock in pointless comparisons and measurements. The light remains buried deep within while the dream world maze in front of my eyes persists.
For everyone else that feels their heart rates rise as the traffic comes to a crawl, while clocks tick past appointed meeting times, I hope we see through it, get in touch, stay present for each days pinnacles, live lives more classic than classic movies, poignant as mind opening novels, masterpiece lives like hand-hewn sculptures against sunrise clouds. A bike ride, a swim, a lingering perusal of the clouds might do it; then work on with unshakable joy and love. Advice for myself, sounding almost doable, but I sit here trapped under a mountain, unable to move a muscle, peace of mind far away, fleeting, and drowned in discomforted heartbeats. This is the point in the writing process when dreams of Helen Keller's mindstate take to the wing like bats at dusk. They tell me I should stop now, kick the tar out of the KFUCK radio DJ (my thinking), and work on that list of crap to do. Even the fear of fear itself must someday go.