Small, dangerous, beautiful things

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I do to contribute to my own anxiety. Yes, there are sometimes environmental circumstances that exacerbate it, and perhaps I do have some strange body-chemistry thing going on that predisposes me to it, but at the end of the day I have to accept responsibility and acknowledge the fact that there is a lot that I do to contribute to my own anxiety.

It's been helpful to me to try to create a list of these little things that I do so I can be better aware of them. It's also been helpful to me to try to engage in activities that help relieve a little of the pressure, a trephination of sorts.

I'll share with you a piece of stream-of-consciousness writing that churned out of my head during a period of anxious energy.

I can't seem to shake the marvel at small things. Small, dangerous, beautiful things. Asking along the axis of my own existence. My line grows shorter with every breath. My hand draws more and more steady as the time of the killing draws near. I write in charcoal on the eyes of my enemies. I breathe in the fumes of their fear. I stand in the wake of no man. I quiver in no one's shadow, save the sun's, such a cool penumbral glow for such a bright hot star. I sense my unrealized sisters' sorrow in its rays. Like warm tongues on flesh, like needles in the crook of every elbow. Don't stop to think, just let it flow out of you like blood. Create a space for yourself in the midst of all that's been taken away. Take it back. Let yourself realize your worth. Let yourself understand the singular beauty of your mind. Create art. Destroy art. Let your creations be destroyed, just let go. Feel the freedom in giving in to the unknown.