I am writing this ti empty my thoughts. I use this as an exercise and write my words without direction or coercion and without any force, except this, to free myself, — to breathe, to live, and to excuse myself from the mental congestion, which does nothing else but hold me back.
Are you ready?
Good, because here it goes . . .
There can literally be nothing between us but air and yet, somehow, there are more than a million obstacles in the room. There are a million more outside in the rest of the world, and yet, there is nothing between us but air, space and time.
There can be everything in our arsenal and nothing in our way. We can have all the advantages of life and have them mean nothing. I have seen miserable millionaires. I have met with people that could have anything they wanted, and yet, none of this was ever enough, and yet, it was as though they had nothing. Then again, nothing is ever enough when the empty void inside of us becomes the vacuum.
There are times when nothing is ever enough. I know this from my own experience. I can have friends. I can have people on my side. I can have all the advantages in the world, and yet, somehow, all I can focus on are my challenges. All I see are my obstacles. All I take note of are my fears and my insecurities.
I have been through times when I spent all of my energy focused on the things that were beyond my control. I worried about things that are not in my favor. I spent what seemed like lifetimes trying to win back the votes that seemed to be against me. I spent most of my life trying to preserve this little porcelain doll inside of me, which I call my ego, which is fragile as ever, which is frightened too, and concerned about everything because hey, — God forbid anyone sees my faults, my flaws, or my imperfections.
I have this station in my brain that over thinks and overreacts. I have this station in my brain which does nothing else but calculate inaccurate math.
I have this station, which I call the anxiety machine, which I know is man-made, or self-made, and yet, I assume that all the data is true and real; and therefore, I react. I respond. I retaliate.
There are a million things between us and yet, none of this is real. None of this is life threatening. None of this is anything but a mental distraction. This is a figment of an overactive imagination and a miscalculation of fear; otherwise known as anxiety.
If I were to give this side of me a voice; I wonder what it would say. If I were to be allowed to tell my fears and yell about my resentments; I wonder where I’d begin, or, would I even know where to start?
The mind is a series of pathways. These are the channels and the avenues that our thoughts pass through. These are the veins and the arteries of our thinking. These are the congested systems, like tunnels and causeways, bridges and gridlocks that challenge our thinking. This is the mental congestion we create by ourselves
“I don’t want to think anymore . . . “
There is the danger of thinking. There is the truth of the matter, which is our thoughts tend to grow because we feed them. We feed them like a stray animal or a deadbeat guest that comes back for more. They refuse to leave. They come back for me because they know we will feed them.
I just don’t want to think anymore.
I want to rest.
I want to get away and just jump out of this.
I want the constant hurdles to stop.
I want the obstacles to go away.
I want to be able to breathe.
I want to walk away without worrying if I’ll be lonely.
These are the thoughts of anxiousness.
I expose this because all of this is true. I expose this because my demons would prefer that I stay quiet. So, instead, I tell on them. I expose them to the light of my truth because my demons are afraid of the light. They are afraid because this exposes their deeds. So they scurry.
I expose my troubled thinking and say this out loud. I do this to replace thought with action and, too; I do this to allow the adult part of my brain to enforce a curfew, so-to-speak. I do this to allow the adult section of my brain to quiet the mouths of a thousand crying babies, which is me and my distractions, which are nothing else but the production of insecure and overactive thoughts.
The ego is nothing more than a frightened child, too afraid to be picked on, to be singled out, to be seen as unwanted and assigned as unimportant.
Me, Me, Me. I, I, I.
This is the bondage of self. These are the recurring nightmares we conjure up and feed, which again, they come back like unwanted guests, — our thoughts, I mean.
I can do one of two things. I can give into this. I can allow my thinking to bring me to sickness. Or, I can counteract. I can replace thought with action. I can steer my thoughts in a different direction by feeding my hopes and starving my doubts.
I know where my past is. It’s behind me, which is where it is supposed to be. However, I will never outrun myself if I always bring up the pieces of my life that weigh me down.
It’s okay to let go. Nothing will happen if I allow myself to forgive my yesterdays. No one ever dies from this. Instead, we live.
And I want to live.