Personal Anxiety Exposition

There is a bubble inside of me. A marble. A swollen, pregnant orb that dives and floats. It bumps against organs. It's filling of cold gas causes twitches and flutters of the guts and heart and epiglottis as it ascends toward the brain, only to end up slithering southward again; redundant in reverse.

Some suggest a chemical cure. Pills, well... we all have our irrational phobias. No pharmaceuticals shall quell my jitters due to a very complex jigsaw puzzle of personal predisposition. Tablets and capsules and caplets shall remain piled in their powdery bins, across town, across the street, elsewhere. I choose my frets and fusses over them.

It's like looking at a picture of a stranger standing with hands on hips. You look at his yellow jacket with it's strange fringe and the angles of his geometry. His eyes are downcast, yet he is you, in a jacket you do not recognize on a street you cannot place. The more you stare at this figure, this self-effigy, the more uncertainties you fight.

So the clothing is not familiar, the street nameless... Things are lost occasionally. But then, who took the picture: A forgotten lover? A passer-by? Why the look of resignation, the feeling of defeat? Why is this image in your hands, anyway?

Searching for answers, for certainty, only mounts questions upon questions. Your back itches in a place you cannot reach, so you ignore it as best you can.

There you have it: what my anxiety is like.

Why do I delve into these ridiculous tirades about personal psyche instead of just posting the actual tribulations of my day-to-day existence? Well, I need to write this down. Why publish it in digital public instead of just journalling privately? Well... I need an excuse to make it worth reading.