Anxiety is the absence of present,
Is the thoughts forgetting the body
Is the victory of the boredom, of the things that may never be
Is the waiting in boarding room for a delayed flight (a real flight?)

It is the interrupted breath,
Missing the air, although sick of air,
To be drown in tricky small chances, holding up to impossibilities

The fear of incapacity,
Rejoice in our own setbacks,
The silent scream, aborted, buried in guilt, remorse and curses
To doubt yourself for no reason at all,
To live miserably and scare death itself with pain

Walk without ever reaching a corner.
To look for a bar and to not have a bar, or
To look for a bar, finding a bar and to not want a bar.

To **** and to account at the same time,
Close the eyes and see monsters,
Open the eyes and see monsters,
Attack the monsters with other stronger monsters
(who stop, smell your fear and end up turning against you),
To know that all monsters are yours,
Fed and incited by you like dogs in a junkyard
(at some point you stop to see your own body bitten to the bones by them)

It is to quench your thirst with poison,
Build up walls around yourself to protect from your own assaults.

Anxiety, my friend, is the rise of non-sense, of the unreal.
Past and future does not coexist with present.
Just wake up.
WAKE UP, little fool.