I am a cigarette smoking, coffee drinking, daydreaming, perpetual seeker of my own worth. When I am alone I waste time. I think, too much. I dream of all the things I’d like to do in life. Sometimes I play my piano, usually the same old stuff I ‘can’ play. Sometimes I learn new songs. Sometimes I write my own. When I’m alone I don’t cook or clean. I don’t exercise, or feel the want to. I rarely meditate, even though I ‘think’ I should, so when I do I feel the pull of resistance, the pull away from silence and stillness. My mind is a busy place, it’s where I live.
And for all that I feel guilty. I feel guilty when I am just being me.
Then I feel a nervousness in my core, a rising panic. The presence of something that feels the need to point out to me my ridiculousness, my uselessness, my hypocrisy and hopelessness. The ruminator, the bullshit detector, the one who sees that I am nothing, doing nothing.
Dreaming, planning, scheming, capturing. That is the extent of my expression. To execute, implement, act and do, that is my downfall, my weakness. Because I am afraid. More than afraid, I am frozen.
The anxiety is building now, like the wind outside, uneasy, agitated. What am I doing with my life? This house is too big for me, the world is too big for me. I feel like I have no place, no safety, no way to make it as me.