I would be ignorant if I didn’t acknowledge the possibility that this could indeed be a manifestation of bipolar disorder, one that merely hides in the carved scars of my neuroses. It could very well be that same mental bipolar virus that has mutated to exploit my hesitation between hope and doubt, confidence and despair, perception and reality.
Then again it’s probably just a shade of color, it’s probably some kind of piece of clothing, the kind I can put it on so many intangible things. I can put it on both hope and doubt, and fear and love, and restlessness, and a pain in my back, and a ringing in my ear; I can dress it up a million different ways, but it’s always just anxiety- when all is said and done.
Anxiety I can harness or anxiety I can confuse.
Maybe anxiety is more the unhealthy acceleration rate that we come to conclusions?
I just need to listen to Waxahatchee on my back and take some deep breaths and let it all slow down, slow down my egregious levels of hope and doubt.