Nothing quite like wallowing in self-pity

Grumpy chipmunk face and sad eyes swimming with tears

No – not the toddler – me the grown woman

wallowing

fretting

at moments overcome with anxiety so forceful that my arms fling up involuntarily as if to slap away this catastrophe

head shaking from side to side

or glancing downward with the constant, why and how

the once insistent urgency to look for God in everything for this moment quietly archived

anxiety – that buzzing white noise that knows that vegetation will not grow in a mechanical wasteland

Without silence and snow and lifeless white mountains

how can there be continents shored up and dry?

The whole world covered in water with great Pangaea split open and distanced from herself

unrecognizably scattered across a spinning sphere

but then it’s all just been a metaphore for my apathetic anxiety

and rolling sense of doom

that molecular status collected in any space and time between past and future  THIS too shall end

and then what will I say to the great Creator and Sustainer?

I tried when I could

but mostly I watched TV

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