The Storm of Anxiety

There it was again; that irrevocable call to be wild, to run with the wind and see the world, to let it caress every inch of my soft white skin. The wind whirled about, whipping braanches like my thoughts, every little leaf tremoring with fear, excitement, desire, some falling off in their frenzy and flying to God knows where. The clouds roll in and out, becoming thick and black, blocking any light or hope, trapping me under a heavy blanket of despair. Where can I go? I am blind and there is no way out! The biting rain drops of opinion slash into me, breaking my wet glasses so that everything I see is duplicated and deformed. The branches heave up with an ominous creaking and gathering speed, come down with enough force to crush me, these thoughts not leaving me alone until my last breath starts to leak out of my beaten body. The clouds begin to lighten, and the tree lifts its heavy arm with great effort and reluctance. The dim lighting under the silver clouds dampens any emotion, but makes me feel safe, not free to run but not trapped, just enclosed. Every little feature is outlined in the sharp contrast of silver and green. The little breeze ruffles the once ecstatic leafs into a litte dance, just a tremor of memory. Suddenly, the winds pick up again, ptiching the limbs all about in a frantic fashion. All order is lost as the clouds pass in front of the sun and cause a strobe like dapple that illuminates my fears and hopes with short bursts of energy, causing the anxiety to convert into power. The power to run anywhere, to lift anything, to see that world in all of its silver light dappled brilliance and run away from the fear, run it out of every crevice in my body, to breath it out with every gasp, this fear that swirls like the dust kicked off the road by the wind and by my heels, quickly hitting the ground, each step making me lighter until I am floating in the air, soaring towards God knows where and wishing to fly forever. Why should I keep my feet planted in the ground, the dark thoughts melting and oozing from the Earth's core until it enters my body, hot and painful and solidifying into a black mass that weighs down my limbs and freezes my mind, unable to move, to think, only a sulforous breath oozes uneven and thick ffrom my hardened lungs. What if I crack? What will be left of me but a dark little pile of ashy rubble that crunches under the feet of those who tell me that I am alright, that I only feel this way but I am perfectly fine, nothing to worry about. They don't hear the sad symphony that tugs at my eardrums and shrieks and reverbrates from the fragile stalagmited cave that is the container of my conscience. The thoughts drip from my head, forming the stalagmites and stalactites until a strong pillar of identity is formed, one that can only be destroyed if someone enters my unsafe mind and smacked it with a hammer made of steely opinion. The total lonliness when you are surrounded by people, that only exists because you let it exist, the desire to hold them, tell them each thought, but not wanting the drama or the option to be happy, just wanting to wish to be happy. Because there is more hope in wish than in action. Actions are desperate, lies that try to convince you that you are happy when you know that happiness is more temporary than the permanant sadness which plauges the human psyche. How can they know? They only know what you tell them, even if you tell them everything, it is not the perfect release you imagined, but builds a barrier which is transperent yet thick enough to be intimidating to you yet breakable to those on the other side. This is stubborness, this is anxiety, this is fear, this is uncertainty. This invisible wall which only exists when I build it, with much intention and meaning. I can stop if I want. But do I?