You know that feeling you get when your mind is packed so full of pointless notions and silly ideas that, perhaps ironically, little content can actually reach the fore?
No..? Well, it’s been happening to me a lot of late; so much so in fact that my typically infallible memory has been lapsing resulting in mental disarray causing my, ordinarily worrisome but never overly troubling, levels of anxiety to reach uncomfortable new heights.
Understandably from a third person perspective, at this point one could easily make some kind of boorish and wholly unfeeling assertion such as, ‘Oh yeah, sure, you have anxiety issues, like, what do you even do that could make you anxious?’
To which I would offer casual response in the vicinity of, ‘Dude, seriously..? Shit I’m sorry, I wasn’t even aware we were competing … In fairness though it probably has more to do with what I don’t do than what I do actually do.’
They, being the ignorant wonders they are would likely get right to the point: ‘Yeah alright then, tell us, what don’t ya do – I mean from where I’m standing you’ve got it pretty good – you’ve got this sweet brainpower so you can like totally churn out your novels in just over a month and like, you don’t have to worry about where you live and that ‘cause like, you’ve already got a house and that and like, you haven’t even got a wife or a girlfriend so you can pretty much do as you please and there’s no one to nag at ya all day and tell you what to do and that, and like, you can pretty much go out on your bike all day like you do and like you’ve got that jiu-jitsu thing you do and I’m pretty sure most WAGs wouldn’t stand for that and -’
Detecting a propensity for run-on sentences I imagine at this point I would jump in and lest the speaker go all day, quickly offer some affirmation, ‘You know, you’re right … The way you tell it there should be no reason for me to feel stress, anxiety, or in fact anything in the least mentally bothersome – just like the way Kurt Cobain or indeed, any multimillionaire rock star should have no reason to feel depressed.’
‘…Oh yeah, and you’ve got a drum kit in the middle of your lounge,’ they might continue as if they never stopped, ‘I mean how many people can say that?’
‘Yes,’ I might go on, amid this hypothetical intervention, ‘I see your point, but as I was saying, I believe the reason for my chronic recurring anxiety has more to do with what I don’t have, or perhaps what I’ve lost.’
At this stage I imagine this third person might look at me, an expression of bemusement at their brow, as they assess the figure before them: ‘Are you serious?’ they might ask, ‘look at yourself,’ they might say, ‘geez,’ they might stumble as real words evade them, ‘shit,’ they might go forth stumbling across that barren intellectual wasteland that is monosyllabic cuss words, ‘just,’ their face might then contort as again the inability to articulate original thoughts strikes them down, ‘I dunno,’ laying the foundation for an onslaught of hackney, ‘just pull your head in or something…’
I’m just glad it’s Friday.
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Ann Zie Tay
Photography by Faw Gat Folniss