In my anxiety
In my anxiety I hear a thousand voices speaking languages I can’t understand but each syllable spoken leaves me on edge like nails on glass.
I know that they whisper, danger up ahead. Each voice is a cloud in my psyche blurring my vision, now screaming; danger!
I can’t see it! I barely trust my feet to take a step amidst this clouded white noise, haze-like condensation fogging up a glass. If I could just clear my vision. I catch glimpses of things just on the edges. I’m walking through twisted brambles and the path is a crooked and winding staircase into the unknown.
Do I dare speak and startle small things out of my way? I may trip over them or crush them under my feet. If I asked for guidance would the words arrange in order and provide direction? I’m not even sure what to say yet but three words are all I need, guide me, please.
But I can’t speak. And it’s too much to understand, instead, I must listen to the melodic beat of raindrops on garden leaves. When I just listen there is a quiet alignment of all things. Oh, but anxiety warns me. Something doesn’t feel right in the garden. There are thieves, false memories, and seeking demons that reach for my joy. Can you believe that I must exist again, tomorrow in this haze?
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