Thursday, January 31, 2013

Head of Steam

Have I talked about anxiety before? No? How strange. How very strange. A gross oversight, as Sherlock Holmes might have said to Watson.

Watson, my dear, how remiss you have been not to see the elephant under the carpet. Do you not see, old chum, how the edges of the carpet are three feet off the floor? Come come! Upon closer inspection do you not find that the pipe that you have been unsuccessfully trying to light is, in actuality,  a large tusker elephant's trunk? My dear, Watson.

My anxiety, some of which is genetic (I blame my mother, see the motherfucker gene, MTHFR) is the steam engine of my train. I throw logs into it's fire with my little blue-striped train conductor's cap on like I'm a Looney Toons cartoon, and get all sweaty doing so, I am covered in soot, and I ring the bell. Who rings the bell? I ring the bell. Next station stop?

There is no "next station stop," Watson, because -- isn't it obvious -- this train is runaway. When given the choice to fight or flight, it turns heel and fleets like Atalanta, baby. This train is bound for glory.

1 comment:

  1. It doesn't take much to trigger it, or maybe, yes it does. Because my anxiety is always right behind the door, waiting for me to tend to something else and then bam it rushes in.

    I work so hard to keep it away, that it fights me back just as hard.

    iIth my nephew's suicide 3 wks ago, I am a walking vibrating jangle of arms and legs. With a left eye twitch to complete the picture.

    Courtesy of the MFG I also posses.