The boy who cried stress

A week ago since last posted.

"It's always like this', he tells himself. 'The Fear and then a rush of Courage and the clean sweet feeling of being born'. He'd read that somewhere in an old western. But the Fear can go on and on until you can't stand it. It's going to break you, and that's when the Fear breaks. You hope." -Burroughs

Days seem to pass at an alarming rate. At least when I regard work. Always it becomes harder to actually achieve the goals set for this day, this week. Instead, a headache of guilt and stress settles in my cranium. I see days pass, deadlines approaching like so many brick walls, and all I manage to do is hide in my dreams. The more I need to focus, the less I do. My head is in summer, in norway, on Eire. My arms are paddling water, walking a stick, pulling someone close enough to smell. My hands, my eyes, my nose; all are off on some separate and elusive adventure, leaving only a lonely heart to bear the load of every day life. My stomach tries to help, but only shrivels up and accumulates acids. I need an injection of Now. A realisation of Presence. A shot of adrenaline to the heart, once an hour, to burn me through all these papers, tapdance my fingers through this report.
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"It suddenly occured to him that he was going to die. Not sooner or later, he knew that of course, but tonight."

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I know a million things are supposed to happend. But I have the Fear, and I want to run a way. It's the way we humans are built, you know. Fight or flight, that is our choice of reactions to any situation. Any situation that is not a simple and habitual chewing of cud. I like the way someone said that the predator without natural enemies would compartmentalise his world. If it moves - it's food. If it doesn't - it's a rock. Well, I am no predator and I feel like I'm surrounded by enemies and natural disaster. Where to run; into the forest fire, or towards the wolves.

I sink down next to a cool and comforting wall. Rock. Rock. Rock.