worry

I worried all night.

Thank you to the angels who lifted me from the hole, even though I continued to worry. Worry about worry about worry about worry. The whole world vibrating with worry. Something is wrong—but it’s okay to worry.

​I worry that I will not transcend the primal state of worry. I worry that I cannot go over it, I cannot go under it, I cannot go around it. I must go through it.

​The sun is setting and I feel the urge to find shelter.

I worry until a gem emerges from my throat. I attempt to proclaim it—to reclaim it. I make a sign that reads:

• In This House,
• We Worry

I hang it in the kitchen. I move in with the inevitability. I cook with it, I laugh with it, I love with it, I am annihilated by it.

Worry is a thing placed next to hope. Maybe it is the shadow of hope. And, like all shadows, it is a thing despised and neglected; a thing to be destroyed and forgotten; a thing to re-approach and re-consider. I sheepishly look in its general direction and am suddenly overcome. Or—I sheepishly look in its general direction and find it temporarily tamed, a sickly sun, purring like a cat.

What I understand about my worrying is purely self-diagnostic—so, much of what I say is most likely projection, posturing myself in a brighter light (for self-defense or maybe subconsciously for my own sake so that I don’t spiral into a greater storm of worry). I see myself. I see an automaton of behaviors and mythologies, trapped in the bind of nihilism—a horizonless limit immediately before me. Nihilism eventually turning into fatalism. Rationality slipping into solipsistic singularity.