It’s cold. An unbearable chill. Ceasing my existence. I can’t breath. I feel my muscles clenching, trying to create warmth; failing. Water flows from my eyeballs, freezing on my cheeks upon impact. It isn’t me who is crying about my situation, it’s my body. My emotions are frozen. Locked into my soul which is escaping; the only thing smart and brave enough to set itself free. Minutes pass like hours as the sun sets and the black clouds crawl across the sky. The wind increases. The Earth falls silent. The last tear falls, reaching the corners of my mouth. A fighter, unlike myself. I am cold until nature warms the soil. By then, it will be too late.
It seems amazing how one sentence can form into a group or a even a thousand groups of words. One sentence can nag at me for hours until I set it free, or I don’t. When I do not, the guilt sets in and I tell myself I could be writing with all my free time. Instead, I look at my phone for hours; submitting my self to the lazy side of life. It’s easy. Easier than trying, than working, than giving myself a chance.
I fall victim, but I am not a victim. I am the criminal. I am the one who sabotages. I hold myself for ransom. The price is high, nothing I can afford, so I torture myself to compensate for not getting what I want.
It’s an ugly game. I play it everyday.
It’s a habit now. Nothing changes when we secretly want it to stay the same.
I’m trying my hardest to break my habit. I remind myself of what I could be doing. I am trying to change the way I think. It isn’t easy. I suppose it never is.
I am good, in my own way. I have had my share of praises and failures. I am okay with this. I try to remember all the positives. Oddly, it’s the positives that scare me. I am stricken with the “what ifs” of success.
When I stop, I ask myself why. What stops me from being driven? The answer is simple and yet complex. Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer, and if I did, I would stop myself from answering.
I write this week about anxiety, failure, success, and the drive to get everything I want, if only I would let myself grow.
Anxiety is what keeps me cold, frozen in my own cycle of self-destruction. I am my own criminal in storm created by my own self-doubt, my own anxiety.
I thought of the first sentence today because I was, in fact, cold. It led me to my own self-realization. A story that transformed.
My only way out is to write. An ironic twist in my own hands of fate.