Love Labor's Lost

volumes of mis-adventures


on March 25, 2012

It’s like a tractor in my stomach. Mulching my innards over and over again. The pain inside moves up my esophagus, clenching the opening, creating terror that rises through my sinuses causing a stinging, like an open wound in the dead sea, my eyes begin to water, but no droplets fall because it’s controlled. I fear failure. I fear the next word. I fear completion. I sigh with depth. I choke on my own mind. My fingers cannot sustain the thoughts that my cranium assures them will workout with excellence. Self doubt.

The first day of school as a 5 year old instills this same type of fear that I have begun to feel every time I sit down to make progress on paper. My mind keeps chanting just keep going, keep writing, keep thinking, but don’t over think. With every word I add a new stone which I need to climb, but I don’t have the height, the gear, the strength, to overcome each boulder. I feel trapped in my own inability to achieve. I feel enveloped by an eminent failure. I am terrified into stupidity. Procrastination is solace; rescued for a moment when my cubicled world reverts to a rounded universe of possibility.

Under a sky sprinkled with twinkling gems, one reflects in a single window fluorescently lit as the surrounding world slumbers. I’m still up; still writing; still unsure. As the sun rises, I’m remiss of a night’s sleep. And so a new day of unease ensues.


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