Sabotage

I yearn to write. But shit gets fucked up, and I'm all over the map again.. can't sit, can't speak - the mumbling nonsense I do manage to string together sounds stale in my mouth. It can't be that bad, can it? I toss and turn, and I defend my disposition as if it gives ground to ravage my heart to pieces. Worn out, worn thin - it's all been said before, hasn't it?  I know, I know - it is temporary. Always shifting, always changing face ... and we cope. The wind will surely come along and blow away this mood with the dust and the pollen that has my face swollen and stuffed. In this moment, I am temporarily paralyzed by anxiety. Do you get that? It's much less isolating, when I know it's understood. It's no use to pretend, and I've let go of the illusion that it's anyone elses responsibility to release my anger. I open my head and my heart, and I wait patiently for the breeze to take the mood with the wind.