(insert title here)

I have this problem with motivation when things are going good. Motivation to let things how I so often refer to "flow" be published to this here little diary I keep of when I am most down. Yet there's still this somehow pressing need to share. I say pressing yet I seem to find it very easy avoiding it, which I'm not sure is a good thing, or bad. Writing generally makes me feel better when I'm down, so is it therefore plausible it would make me feel better when good? Yet to be tested, we will see very soon.

Here I pour my heart, my soul,
Here I admit emotions stole,
Here I try to be everything I aspire,
Here I can agree my deepest desires,
If I ever cry alone, in deep and painful love,
Is it you that gives me strength from up above?
A lord in life, my religion revolves around your words,
Now comes a time to abstain from all that I have heard,
A law is that which you make to prevent a crime,
And yet the same is what people break from time to time,
I never agreed to being what you would expect,
As if I knew what anyway, your attempts to protect,
Innocence perhaps? Growth potential too?
Besides the point, this is my way of saying, I've been thinking about you,
Anyone who knows me may agree,
Through written word I can enable others to see,
Assist in a broader view of how I think and feel,
Yet who I want to know... This may sound surreal,
I kneel, and pray, and try to say, I hope I've made you proud,
And imagine that smiling face in amongst the crowd,
"Listen, you're doing fine, believe my face if not my speech,
For as long as you remember me my helping hand's in reach."

The value of 2 cents increases dramatically

For once, let's not script anything. I'm going to give it to you straight, it's up to you, if you can handle the single shot maybe come back for a double next time.
If I were to give a current mood assessment it would be terrified.
If you were to ask me why, I couldn't answer.
If I were to think about it I'd consider any thousands of reasons why I should be terrified.
Only none of them make sense.

I read shorts on how anxiety effects people all the time. How it convinces you of certain events that are beyond outlandish. How you push everyone you know and love away. I want to rebel, but I struggle to find the strength past pushing the person closest to me away.
I can't describe this through speech, it's not possible. There are words in my head I don't know how to say, but writing, well writing makes so much of a difference to being able to find exactly the right word.
It's crushing, and strangely liberating. To be able to dream that anything is possible, if it were ever even remotely plausible to harness that, and create a new state of mind. That would be a marvel, if I ever found a way, that would make my life.
However, right now, it's not the case, and dreaming anything is possible is a terrifying prospect.

Now I want to make you a promise, only I want you to promise me the same.
I promise that nothing will ever be this bad again. I promise that even in the darkest of places, a light can be found. I will be your light, whenever you need me to be. I will tear at the walls of darkness until there is nothing left, if you'll let me. Between us, darkness will cease to exist past the point of moonlight.


Here's one from months ago, I kind of left the one I intended to publish at work.

These days pass, no thought here,
A smile there, a little cheer,
To laugh, love, live each day,
And barely give anything away,
There, you stare, with mounting fear,
A false hope that the fog will clear,
One thing remains uncertain,
One thing that's clearly hurting,
What it is, you'll never know,
Or feel unknown's glancing blow,
You are designed to withstand,
But does this emptiness force your hand?
Make you live a different way?
No, you make do and stay the same,
Worry seems normal, and fear too,
The absurdness appears in how you do,
Simple tasks with such restraint,
And all because the emotional pain,
Becomes unbearable? Maybe no?
Immobilized by fear and so,
Anew you start every day,
Waking to a new sun's ray.

Frozen

A one of those weekends that make you think, "I'm here, but I don't feel it at all". When your body is all there, you can feel the world working around you but your mind refuses to accept that you're even alive at all. I can't put into words how scary it is when everything is going 10x faster than it should, you're frozen to the floor as your body slows down to a complete stand still by somehow speeding itself up. It's a collision of two polar opposites, you stand still while the pace everything seems to go forces your heart to pummel, over beat, and the gradual numbness of each limb creates the complete feeling motionless.
Twice that's happened now.
It's like a waking paralysis, if you've ever had the sleep version.

Two pieces of sad news over the weekend of people struggling to cope day to day, and as a result, sadly taking their own lives. Nobody knew of their struggle, or even if there was one, until everything came to an end. If this was to ever be you in that situation, as I have, and many millions before, talk to someone. Anyone, before it does become too late.
That's the key, before it's too late. It's easy to ignore a problem, but when it's on an emotional level, it has a way of manifesting itself into something much more, and becomes something else entirely.

You're never alone, it's only ever if you leave things so past far gone that you'll ever feel it.


Ethereal, as if smoke,
Thick, black dense fog making you choke,
Abated breath, a giant sigh,
You lay and ask the world why,
What have you done to force this hand,
What have you done to wear this brand,
It shows, and threatens like a bull,
And charges down looking to cull,
To strike down false labels worn,
False that you could have sworn,
For it feels truer than ever else,
No comprehension, your brain melts,
It's not for a path for you to walk,
Without that friend to sit and talk.


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The World's Longest week

After really does seem like an eternity, this week is finally over with. The losing of jobs, moving of roles within the same job, and all the stress that came with it has been unbearable. No, it wasn't me who lost the job but I feel like I've been put far enough through the ringer that it may as well have been and then some.

I have gradually more and more been putting how things have transpired particularly over the last couple of weeks into words so expect an influx of feelings with maybe a dash of purpose over the coming months, and in my new job role I'll have a lot more free time in which to write more creatively and put way more thought into it than I ever have been able to do.

Every cloud has a silver lining, but it's finding that precious glint within the mountain of uncertainty that's the challenge, I don't really want to find out what will happen over the next month or so but I don't have a choice in the matter either. People around me remain optimistic to a degree I would not think possible, I just hope that shines a light of hope that I can cling onto as well.


Excuses, I try to make,
To renew myself, for goodness sake,
Escape monotony and start anew,
I thought, past this, I'd grew,
That constant looming, snarling tomb,
Encasing not only me, but you too,
Putting myself out on a limb,
Yet worry stays and things look grim,
How on earth are you so calm?
Assuring me there is no harm,
But you know me, and how I work,
Forefront of my mind, is getting worse.

Relapse

If I could just make it disappear,
Wipe the slate entirely clear,
I would without a second breath.

I have dreaded this day, I have dreaded this day for the past year and half. The day I admit my mind has decided to relapse, to fall back into the murky abyss of my own old enemy, the anxiety and it's partner in crime depression, or would this be repression?

I stopped writing, maybe publishing, because I had really ran out of things to write about. There were no more lingering, overwhelming feelings of hurt or panic, just a steady flow of normalcy. Yet here I am again, stringing feeling to feeling together in a matter of seconds, minutes, because for some strange reason, a pen feels like a better tool of portrayal than my mouth.

Just admitting a problem exists feels like a first step, before going back to some form of therapy and regaining lost tools in order to repair, or begin to repair, a daily state of mind that is copeable. You know the saying, "A bad workmen always blames his tools"? What if he had no tools, what if the only thing standing between him and the repeat failed escapade is himself?

I digress.

As a way to reconfigure,

I opened up to reconsider,

Terrifying states of mind,

Blind leading partially blind,

I can't see through clouded eyes,

Clouded by my feeble cries,

Cries so blunt they cannot pierce,

Desperate tries to be fierce,

To scare the darkness away,

To keep the fear at bay,

A bay, a beach, a gleaming smile,

The waves arising, trying to rile,

To ruin, to quash, the growing joy

Growing tepid, growing coy,

Growing up and growing old,

Fears folding, feeling old,

I expected to find a meaning,

Yet here I am back at the beginning.