Escape will not come when I'm worried. When I'm hell-bent on trying to find or force a new course. Worry infiltrates my every deed, fills my body and surrounds like a disease, multiplies and spreads like the Big C. Cancer.
this is not that, there's no terminal sentence attached to the Big W.
That I know of, if this is that. Can you die from, of Worry? Some
people die of a broken heart, the heart pining for someone its lost;
others from shock, a sudden tragedy or financial ruin. Some linger in
sadness or pain, others disappear like a light going out, the power
cut off from their body. Some desperate souls take action, planned or
on impulse, because the other Big W: the World and trying to live
among its peoples, can get too much, and nothing, so it seems to them
at their lowest ebb, can ever remedy this. Life will always be a
struggle regardless of their intent or outward situation. Nothing is
ever what it seems.
Lewis Carroll's Alice say that? My brain is so fuddled, I can't
think. I feel like the sozzled dormouse in the teapot at the Mad
Hatter's tea party. Oh, wait, perhaps I'm confused... Wasn't there a
similar scene in Anne of Green Gables? With a mouse drunk on
Marilla's famed cordial...oh, hang on, wasn't that Anne's bosom
friend, Diane Berry? Anne playing hostess and unwittingly plying her
friend with a fortified wine or brandy. I'm sure there was a mouse
somewhere at any rate...something involving pastry...?
what I was trying to get at is too often we take things at face value
and don't think or want to delve deeper. Our lives are so busy....we
don't have the time...we don't wish to intrude...but then those with
perpetual furrowed brows never ask for help, and it's so easy to
believe them when they say they're fine. Just peachy. No other
details are ever given. The conversation is flippant because after
all worries are difficult to explain. Words are too often inadequate
to describe the exact fear and why it may have arisen. Worries are
personal, sometimes sensible, but mostly absurd.
cannot be reasoned with. And it normally strikes at a time in your
life when you're unoccupied, which is something else it shares with
Worry. Some people are able to distract, to avoid whatever is causing
them angst; I find I cannot and so this leads to another Big W:
Writer's Block, which only maddens me further and removes an
anchoring measure. My mind infuriatingly going round in circles like
a dog chasing a cat, a cat a mouse, a mouse... what does a mouse
chase? A chunk of tempting cheese in a trap pulled along on a string?
Tea? Pastry? See above. Once again the mouse conundrum strikes.
refuse to return to that. I do not wish to be sent off on some wild
goose chase, although at least my mind is now contemplating fowl and
this is what happens when the mind resists other offerings, and mine
constantly defies my will. There's no discipling or training it, it
will pick and pick until no stone goes unturned; every tiny bit of
adhered grit dusted off, each clean form memorised and surface
eye-balled. The stony heaps grows as does the worry. It's worse than
a dog worrying sheep who won't listen to simple commands such as a
gentle 'Come' or a roared 'Leave Off!' And so nimble on its feet that
it runs rings around its red-faced owner. Can't catch me, catch me
now. Fooled you! I'm still going...
Woolf said a writer should have a room of one's own; that's all very
well, but what if within that room your mind at times declines to be
inhabited. It only wants to engage in the Big W, allow the tractor
wheels to throw up clods of mud and plough crookedly. The wrinkled
brow, narrowed eyes, and pursed lips rise and indent the already
visibly creased surface. The lungs inhale, exhale, shallowly, the
pulse beats erratically. The stomach churns, the skins erupts. The
joints click and creak like an old house withstanding gale force
winds or defending against a violent storm.
Picture Credit: Ploughed Field, 1830, Caspar David Friedrich