What does it feel like?

What does it feel like when your insides turn and toil, twist and tumble? Through the world’s pain, and your own, there really isn’t any difference between the two. I wander the roads of my mind like a lost tourist, not able to grasp what should be home. Struggle, they say, makes us stronger, and pain makes us more resilient. But after having tasted the triumph of surety and completeness, I am not sure — in fact, I know that I don’t — want to hear the sounds of defeat or taste the bitterness of the war inside my mind.

What does it feel like when your gut wavers and wanders, without the champion of the soft and gentle cushion of what you thought were facts? No one loves or revels in the stuff that anxiety is made of, but do we ever really rid of it? Do we ever really free it from our hungry grasps when we are most weak? I would love to hold onto a piece of unwavering belief. I thought I had that, but now I am not so sure.

What does it feel like when you weep when the world weeps? When the flesh on your skin begins to dance with goosebumps and pain every time you see someone else in pain? There has been a lot of loss lately. I don’t know how to make sense of this. I see it everywhere I turn. I see mothers losing babies. I see sisters losing brothers. I see sons losing mothers. I see wives losing husbands. Sometimes the deaths come slow like grinding nails against sandpaper. Sometimes they come quick and fleeting, like a firm and harsh slap against the face when you’re looking the other way. But in the end, the result is the same: you lose, you grieve, you maybe accept for just a brief blissful moment in your life, and then you grieve again as if you’re losing all over again.

What does it feel like?

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