Well, I have to start somewhere. It isn't very often when I approach a deadline, and as it gets closer, that I can't think of anything. I scroll through the Notes app on my phone, looking for something, anything, that I can write about; I can't find anything.

Out of all of my incomplete poems, nothing comes to mind. I could just wing it and write a poem that I do not care about, but no, I don't want to fall to that level. I want to face the fact that I can't write anything, and detail my thoughts about it.

Why can't I think of anything? Why am I drawing a blank? Have I lost my touch? I used to get excited for a deadline, I would be prepared a week ahead. If only I cared enough- wait, no it's not that. I do care.

So what is it with me?

Why does my brain fail to see that I care, that I want to write, I want to escape the monotonous and mundane life that I am beginning to live more every day.

So what is stopping me? Only my hands, the fingers that are typing this very sentence are the same tools that are failing to deliver me away from this plane.

The same fingers that do not accept my request to leave from my body and into my own realm of possibility, are denying me escapism. This body knows what I've been through, doesn't it? Why can't my muscles remember the mental pain that I endured and still am reeling over from all of these years?

No, that would be impossible. I've grown so much from the mental turmoil, the painful nights where I could not sleep. The near death scenarios in my head. The scarification caused by medicines that were ill-advised to me. I've been within and experienced my body and my chemical imbalances, but why can't my body remember with me?

Oh, there I go again. I take a common thing, experienced by most writers, and personalize it. "Adam, why can't you do this?" or "Adam, why would you act this way? There is no other person in the universe who can't cope like you. Be normal."

Well, this is normal for me.

To personalize things I can't control, to see through logical explanations, and taint them with my feelings and attribute their cause towards my character. But, I can handle this. I see the patterns, I can see the endless brigade of self doubt and low self esteem. And I can deal with it.

In a way, this is one of my coping mechanisms, writing straight from the brain, and onto paper.

Author's Note:

In this monologue, I explored my anxiety. My anxiety, like most clinical cases, does not only stem from worrying, but the act of worrying about worrying. The fact that I might be a wreck if one little thing goes wrong, horrifies me and an increasing number of people every day. It is important to not take the "wills of the universe" personally. Of course, I could give out advice about how to deal with anxiety, but it is not as universal as one would think. The most I can do personally is to offer my own experience, and how I can personalize general things such as writer's block.