Everyday is a new day. Somewhat hard to fathom. There is this feeling in my gut of dread, from what I am not sure. It is reasonable to not worry about things when there is nothing to do be done about them. Is it true everything feels like the end of the world when we’re young, and less so as we age? I suppose it’s true, even now, how easily children will wail at something which we don’t even notice as upsetting. The pit of guilt in my gut, the anxious feeling, where does it come from and where does it go? Can I breathe it out? There are no simple answers anymore, but all the remedies I receive are simple. I focus too much on how I feel. It’s out of my control, all I can do is control how I act. I can be productive and do homework and take breaks and try to laugh a little. Visa debt. Eating me up a bit. A job offer came along that was perfect for me and I didn’t take it. I’m going out of town again, I won’t have time. The real world calls me and I deny. I deny because I am afraid of falling, but to live in fear isn’t living.
Maybe I don’t have to feel this way. I can find joy through small things, through speaking Shakespeare, through jumping up and down for no reason, from savouring fresh strawberries. I can touch joy again if I want to, if I try, I have a whole day ahead of me. It can be a decent day.
Each Day Is A Journey 