a quiet worry

writing...

it seems so freeing.  compelling, to put my mind's words to a page.

my moods rise, and fall, quiet worrying, outright agitation, lapsing into weariness, as ceaseless as the tide.

i'm compressed by them.  compelled by them.  they move me to . . . inaction.

my work, once ceaseless, so much that i'd worked, and taught myself and learned to do well,

now has come grinding to a halt.

and i am at the mercy of myself.  relentless, blind, unknowing, unforgiving, the cruel evils of a persona that i've never sought to embody

have found a form in an abstract construct which now torments me, and i feel it's somehow . . . happy. 

fulfilled, as my work used to make me, leaving me wracked, my mind and muscle frail, my heart, aching.  my bones, aching.

my body tense as a wire, i can focus on nothing that i should be happy about.  i only worry now.

worry.  worry.  worry. 

why can't i control what i'm doing to myself?

it moves me to tears, to put it to paper.  perhaps writing it will help. 

but when i write on my work, my novel, i grieve.  just as i grieve now.

will nothing relieve me of this?