Long time no ramble. It was an unintentional break. I still had things to say, but…
I literally forgot how to write. But not really literally, although the irony of using a word that’s lost all meaning other than as a mere filler, used with such frequency only secondary to that of ‘like’, for when the brain stalls and you want to sound emphatic and dramatic but words have given up on you so you’re left to drawl, ‘liiteerallly’, is not lost on me.
I grapple with my brain to shake some brilliance out of it. Rusty, shy, words don’t come and when they do they are stuttery like a machine gun without the lasting affect. I swill them around in my mouth, my tongue thick as I try to remember that word, what’s that word? Blank. My mind is blank. My thoughts however are constant. A stream that sometimes is ankle deep and sometimes rises quickly up beyond my knees, threatening to knock me over and carry me away with it. Too quick for me to write it down.
Sometimes I’m lost in thoughts so inconsequential I’m glad that only I can hear them - sometimes Kardashian centred, (rip Kourtney & Khloe as BFF). Sometimes big thoughts way beyond me, like the vastness of space and what’s really out there and the disappointment and relief that I’ll probably never really know. More often than not my brain is busied with worries, these thoughts are the worst. Their persistence tugs at me physically, punching through my day. Mostly they are ‘what ifs’, what if my meeting goes badly tomorrow, what if I don’t know the answer, what if I make a fool out of myself in front of everyone?
For these types of worries they march on, rhythmic, palpable, echoing in the cavity of my chest. No room for organs in there, just tight with all the unspoken words. My stomach bottomless. My brain cloudy, distracted with the what ifs, but no woulda, coulda, shoulda-ing can give me that relief. Rather the clock ticks on, syncing to the pounding in my chest and head and shaking of my hands. It’s unstoppable. Until it isn’t. And the moment elapses. It’s over. Logic awakens and adrenaline overtakes. I ask myself ‘why was I so worried?’ It wasn’t even that bad. Until the next time when all previous experience is forgotten, replaced instead with the oh too familiar aNxIEtY.
And in between these bouts of anxiety is the after worry, like an after shock. The adrenaline of having overcome whatever situation nearly consumed me, wears off and the confidence that I survived whatever situation I was dreading, dissipates. My thoughts busied with what I think happened vs what actually happened. The edges of reality blurred with my own recollections.
It’s exhausting. My respite was writing. Focusing the jumble of my mind into words of meaning. My brain on pause, focused totally on whatever stream of fashion consciousness I was wrapped up in. Complete conviction behind the keyboard. Until my escape, escaped me. My thoughts on fashion never stopped, I was just no longer able to make them make sense. Critical thinking about the intersection of fashion and culture isn’t fun when it’s forced. Like a deadline I set myself that I just couldn’t meet.
Thoughts when not expelled can be all consuming, yet it’s hard to choose an audience. So often you’re met with what is supposed to be a comforting, ‘don’t worry’. Doing little but to test my restraint. To have an audience is to have a mirror up to your thoughts - how do they react? is it in proportion to how you’re reacting? or is it worse? better maybe?
To see someone react to the very words that you’re struggling to verbalise is to see another person express what has until now been expressionless - the inner workings or failings of one’s mind, exposed. Perhaps that’s why I choose to write. Who even knows if anyone will read this. Does it even matter? My worries matter to me. My ramblings rated only by myself, on a scale created only by myself. So here it is. All out on the page. I guess I can write after all.
So to summarise, I’m back. Happy New Year!
