Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
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by Brae
Rated: 13+ · Prose · Emotional · #2223537
A journal entry from October 2019; contemplating joy and despair.

There has been an energy, a glow, keeping me aloft-- sustaining my flight from one day to the next. I'm anxious now about how long it will last -- when and where are the dark days ahead? Anxiety is a vibration, prickling, pulsing from shoulder to shoulder, stem to stern. I worry about how to keep it at bay - how to keep it from consuming all the joy in its path. Long days alone can be hard - like this one. Uncertainty and fear of failure contribute to the gnaw at my gut. Forgetting to eat - lost in thought - does not help either. I need to find a way to be happy and feel peaceful about resting and setting aside work. It's ok to relax.

My insecurity and feelings of inadequacy and incompetence dog along at my heels. Running only helped for a moment. I am a live wire of emotion today. Breathless, boundless joy pulling outwards, while that secret seed -- that singularity of despair -- pulling inward.

It is a wonder sometimes, how I am able to anchor the very fabric of ME to the loom of my bones.
In every direction dissolution threatens.

The Ilingot knew that one's body was no suitable cage for the rage that lives within the deepest grief. I wonder why I grieve and rage. What loss have I had to bear? They threw away their anger in the tear & tangle of flesh and hair of other men. They hunted & stalked & seethed, until they found release.

I wondered today whether it is the case that my grief is analogous to my joy. If my joy lives in the smallest of things -- the impossible vibrance of a poppy in the sun, a perfect smooth round stone in my path -- where does my grief live? In the incomprehensibility of the infinite? In the transience of being? In the slip of time?

I take a breath to recenter, but wonder if it does any good.
A whole day passed, and I accomplished so little.
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