Is not today’s date. Nor is it yesterday’s. I’d count backwards, day by day, but I don’t have that many fingers.
When I first set out to write here, it was with an intention to write honestly and explicitly. Which I’ve done to some extent. But it feels egotistical. First world problems don’t equate to much when you think about the bigger picture.
I’ve suffered from some form of pathological anxiety for some time now. I imagine it is a condition that is some part genetics, some part environment, and some part first world. The sensation of feeling mentally unwell is fed by a guilt of knowledge that feeling mentally unwell is a luxury that many can’t afford. Yet it weighs no less heavy for knowing that fact. I’ve sought help for this pathology. Has it improved my state of mind? Undoubtedly, yes. But it is a slippery slope and there are almost as many steps backwards as there are steps forward.
I’ve chewed my nails for over fifteen years now. What does that mean? And what does it mean if I can’t stop?
The current aural backdrop to this written scene is rather aggressive. I’m not sure which I prefer: the angry soundscape, or one that is soothing.
I’m both physically and intellectually undisciplined. Lazy would not be too harsh a word. In the way that I don’t stretch my muscles, equally I don’t stretch my mind. The thoughts are as tired as the fingers through which they are conveyed.
One has to accept failure, to get back on the horse, so to speak. I’ve never ridden a horse, though. Is ridden even the right word? Rode. Rad. Rided. They all sound wrong.
How much do you chastise yourself? Can you encourage laziness by allowing yourself too much latitude? Don’t go easy on yourself, you cajole and berate. Where do fear and laziness overlap?
I’m done for now. It must be baby steps. They’re steps, all the same.