Hello, Dear Anxiety

Sometimes I sit and write because I want to. Sometimes it’s only because I haven’t written in so long a while that I start doubting my capability to do so again. This, perhaps, is one of those times. It’s been months since I’ve sat down and thought about something worthy enough to put down into a string of words and loom together.

It’s not like I didn’t get ideas. Ideas are never really absent from your mind, they’re like a cloud filling up all the empty space inside. Owing to the fact that I have nothing on my mind in general, I’m always full of ideas. But every time I sat down and wrote something, a paragraph or two later, I’d just scrap it and go to sleep. It was either overly descriptive, or too bland, or plain cringey (which, for the lack of a better word, is the best way to describe it)

But it’s counter productive to let you stop that from writing. I started looking up prompts, writing ideas that are more suited to let the words flow more easily, without so much care for character depth, or really giving perspective. But that’s not so much fun either. I started writing to build narratives and make a world out of nothing, make a reality which exists only in a way that I wish, and one that can change according to my whims and fancies. I used to walk up the stairs thinking how I’d describe it,

“He walked up the stairs, thinking of the menial jobs he’ll have to do at home.”

There was nothing menial to do at home, neither was there a reason to take the stairs. There wasn’t really a point to think that way other than just to create a dramatic effect out of simple actions in my life. The lack and craving for writing clearly showed. So I sat down today and thought about it.

I thought about what I will write about. I have written about not being able to write before, as well as about a writer’s block. I have written about love, rage, darkness, hate, murder, some more love, and monkeys.

Today, I decided that I’m going to write about anxiety.

The last 3 minutes of what you read was me overthinking my decision of what I’m going to write about, and in these words, I could sum up what anxiety means.

A lot of words said, for little or no use, hardly benefitting anyone, but said anyway, before they are overanalysed to the point where the amount of time wasted on the decision making process supersedes the amount of thought put into the decision itself. Which then makes you feel terrible about yourself.

This feeling continues in a loop.

Now imagine this loop playing in your mind, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, giving you commentary on every menial action you do in the day. Like a shrill opera disaster from the 60s on repeat. The feeling of anxiety is like standing in the middle of a busy road blindfolded, and every car brushes past you, missing you by just a little nick. And as much as you try to evade it, escape it, you can't. You’re frozen with fear, trying to run from a car which you can’t see.

The reality is that the road, the cars, none of them really exist. All that exists is you, frantically trying to run away from a car that doesn't exist, an accident that won't happen, blindfolded.