12:53am, Anxious Rambling.
Hey there.
I don't know who needs this right now, who's here, reading this. who wants something, someone to hold onto. Maybe no one else needs this. Maybe I'm the one who needs this.
It's 12:53am, not an odd time to be awake per se, but not normal. Nothing about this is normal. Sometimes, the hours span, for what seems to be decades. Endless, in its own way. Like I am in still water. Everything around me is changing so why aren't I?
Nights when I forget the easy mechanics of breathing. In, out. In for 8, out for 4. I could recite you a list of things to do when anxiety kicks in and then a list of things to not do. Speaking is easy. Advice is free. Everything about this world is based on choices, after all. Do i believe in free will? a part of me does.
the same part of me that knows I have nothing to worry about. The same part of me that believes in goodness and forevers and promises and hope. Hope, I know, I have always had.
Yet, nights like this, when everyone I know is out of reach and the clock ticks louder than the sound of my breathing and there is nothing I can hold onto to distract me, I think of how hopeless everything truly is. Goodness is measured. Forevers don't exist. Promises are rarely kept. and hope, hope is for people who deserve it.
Am I deserving of hope? Trick question, ask me at 12pm and I can give you thesis after thesis telling you exactly why and how you do, Everyone deserves to be hopeful. Ask me at 12am, with the chill of silence and loneliness nipping at my skin and anxiety numbing the tips of my fingers and I will ask you in turn 'tell me what hope is'.
The kindest thing I can do for myself right now is to document my thoughts here, here where I know anyone visiting could read: and I find that comforting. Comforting, terrifying: the words overlap, the feelings are aloof. You are only here because some part of you cares, and that comforts me, thank you for being here, I assure you I am fine, only slightly overwhelmed and if you know me, this is routine.
You could also be here because you want to pick me apart, find out what goes on in the whizzing depths of my mind so here you go, a ticket to my thoughts: you have a choice in what you do with it. pick me apart or try to see things the way I do.
The world is a kaleidoscope of possibilities: what I see isn't necessarily what you see, even if we're looking at the same place. In some ways, I am not okay. A large part of me trembles at the idea of existing, being, living on for decades. But there still breathes within me a part that hopes, hope in all senses of speaking and it is this part that brings me here, fingers gliding on keys I have known long enough to not have to look down when I do pour my thoughts out. Here, I unravel but this isn't the end of me and maybe that's not so terrifying after all.
Hi,
my name is Najaha. I am anxious but I am okay.
I don't know who needs this right now, who's here, reading this. who wants something, someone to hold onto. Maybe no one else needs this. Maybe I'm the one who needs this.
It's 12:53am, not an odd time to be awake per se, but not normal. Nothing about this is normal. Sometimes, the hours span, for what seems to be decades. Endless, in its own way. Like I am in still water. Everything around me is changing so why aren't I?
Nights when I forget the easy mechanics of breathing. In, out. In for 8, out for 4. I could recite you a list of things to do when anxiety kicks in and then a list of things to not do. Speaking is easy. Advice is free. Everything about this world is based on choices, after all. Do i believe in free will? a part of me does.
the same part of me that knows I have nothing to worry about. The same part of me that believes in goodness and forevers and promises and hope. Hope, I know, I have always had.
Yet, nights like this, when everyone I know is out of reach and the clock ticks louder than the sound of my breathing and there is nothing I can hold onto to distract me, I think of how hopeless everything truly is. Goodness is measured. Forevers don't exist. Promises are rarely kept. and hope, hope is for people who deserve it.
Am I deserving of hope? Trick question, ask me at 12pm and I can give you thesis after thesis telling you exactly why and how you do, Everyone deserves to be hopeful. Ask me at 12am, with the chill of silence and loneliness nipping at my skin and anxiety numbing the tips of my fingers and I will ask you in turn 'tell me what hope is'.
The kindest thing I can do for myself right now is to document my thoughts here, here where I know anyone visiting could read: and I find that comforting. Comforting, terrifying: the words overlap, the feelings are aloof. You are only here because some part of you cares, and that comforts me, thank you for being here, I assure you I am fine, only slightly overwhelmed and if you know me, this is routine.
You could also be here because you want to pick me apart, find out what goes on in the whizzing depths of my mind so here you go, a ticket to my thoughts: you have a choice in what you do with it. pick me apart or try to see things the way I do.
The world is a kaleidoscope of possibilities: what I see isn't necessarily what you see, even if we're looking at the same place. In some ways, I am not okay. A large part of me trembles at the idea of existing, being, living on for decades. But there still breathes within me a part that hopes, hope in all senses of speaking and it is this part that brings me here, fingers gliding on keys I have known long enough to not have to look down when I do pour my thoughts out. Here, I unravel but this isn't the end of me and maybe that's not so terrifying after all.
Hi,
my name is Najaha. I am anxious but I am okay.
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