Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Fits of Lucidity

For the longest time, I fancied myself as a writer. I have bouts of creativity in between crisis points. I don’t see myself as a writer any longer. I see myself waiting for the inevitable end so I can either be at peace or start over.

This is a morbid and dark view, I know. I’m working my way through it. So many of the last years I’ve lived seem that I’ve been in chrysalis awaiting the metamorphosis that should have been done already. I wonder what it will take for me to finally crawl out of the cocoon.

The anxiety I’m feeling means that I’m not living in the moment. I recognize this. I’m trying to create the future, but I’m doing it in the wrong way. I’m worrying instead of building. I’m simply placated by the worry as it whispers sweetly to me to stand still.

I honestly don’t know what path I’m on anymore or if I’m even walking. What I do know is that I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of the anxiety and the depression. I’m tired of fits of lucidity whilst traveling in a constant fog.

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