It’s 1:10am, and, naturally, I am wide awake and yearning to write something. Anything. Any words that will convey some kind of feeling.
My thoughts are living in my head lately, swirling around, knocking over coffee cups and scattering papers – apparently my head resembles an old British parlor – and try as I might, I can’t form them into something that makes sense. I’m a writer. Something isn’t working correctly here.
I feel like I’m in a constant state of slight panic, overwhelming worry, incredible indecisiveness and annoying hopefulness. I’m working myself into a tizzy trying to make things happen and evolve and work out, and the things that I should be focusing on are falling to the wayside and that makes me even more worried.
It’s a hot mess up in here.
For instance, I’m meeting a new friend tomorrow for breakfast. And I’m nervous. To me, nervousness is a useless feeling, one that gets in the way and steps on everyone’s shoes without saying excuse me, please. I know, logically, that I shouldn’t be nervous. We’ve been talking most every day for the past month. But yet, here I am, thinking ridiculous thoughts about where I will park and what I will wear and if the shop will be open at 8:45am and what happens if it isn’t and should I wait in the car or inside or maybe outside, but it’s hot and I don’t want to sweat —
See? Too much here.
I wish I had a definitive answer as to how I can get ahold of myself and stop the world from spinning so quickly. But I don’t think there’s a button that will magically make things better or easier. I’m beginning to think this is life, and it’s time for me to join the ranks of those who are holding on for dear life.
I’m not sure how to feel about that (cue another round of extreme self-introspection) but we’ll see how tomorrow goes before I make any rash decisions.
Until.
The Year of Things 