here, the depths of my mind, exposed to all
it seems so freeing. compelling, to put my mind's words to a page.
my moods rise, and fall, quiet worrying, outright agitation, lapsing into weariness, as ceaseless as the tide.
i'm compressed by them. compelled by them. they move me to . . . inaction.
my work, once ceaseless, so much that i'd worked, and taught myself and learned to do well,
now has come grinding to a halt.
and i am at the mercy of myself. relentless, blind, unknowing, unforgiving, the cruel evils of a persona that i've never sought to embody
have found a form in an abstract construct which now torments me, and i feel it's somehow . . . happy.
fulfilled, as my work used to make me, leaving me wracked, my mind and muscle frail, my heart, aching. my bones, aching.
my body tense as a wire, i can focus on nothing that i should be happy about. i only worry now.
worry. worry. worry.
why can't i control what i'm doing to myself?
it moves me to tears, to put it to paper. perhaps writing it will help.
but when i write on my work, my novel, i grieve. just as i grieve now.
will nothing relieve me of this?