My head is in complete turmoil. I really do not know what is going on inside. There is lots of fog and distress and it’s causing me a lot of worry. I know I know. What is the point in worrying and it is something that is in the future and is very unlikely to happen. So does that mean I’m not worried? Rather that I choose not to worry.
I don’t know! Right now, my head is in my hand, my elbow on the desk and I’m wincing with this internal pain. I have not had this feeling for a long time . One where I am trying so hard to work out what it is that I’m thinking, working out what the answer should be and nothing is forthcoming. It’s like there is a vacuum, an empty space that I so desperately want to fill and I don’t know how to do it. I don’t even know what questions I could be asking myself to provide the answer. There is nothingness right in the front of my head. I can feel the area in between my temples and I massaging it but to what purpose?
And then I start thinking about my purpose and my inner critic laughs at me saying that I have no chance of riding this wave, of seeing my desire to help others be fulfilled. It is mocking me and I’m not able to find the necessary strength right now to defend myself against this onslaught. I slept well for me anyway and I am not sure why I feel so tired. Demoralised. Out of breath. My arm is permanently… I will change this sentence because I refuse to accept any permanence with regard to my arm. To use the word permanently in the same sentence as the world is, is producing a fire inside of me. A rage because I know what I am going through is not permanent. And suddenly I don’t feel it’s rage and this anxiety is diminishing. Not completely. Not even half. But at least it is lessening and also I know why. Because I am refraining my story.
Time for a walk in nature. Tiny little things seem to really cause me concern. For some reason or other, the little widget clock on my Mac in the top right hand corner has disappeared, and I must have glanced at it more than 20 times just while writing this, looking for it . It gets into my system and eats away at me. Almost to my corps. I know I don’t know whether the word corps is French or English. How has it come to this? I am a mess. I am a mess.