People with anxiety live primarily to eradicate, or at least minimize, the discomfort (to put it mildly) that they autonomously feel in the pit of their stomach. It’s ongoing, like a Ferris wheel out of whack, making you feel like you want to throw up. It’s making you sick. The once instinctual instrument of survival that brought us to this day now has seen too much and it’s been jaded. It scrutinizes and dares to gaze suspiciously at everyone and everything. It’s an arduous task to constantly be looking over one’s shoulder. The anxiety…gives everything a label. It gives everything a place and a place for everything. From the astral to the ethereal and back to quantum physics driven by the man made perceptions of our given society. It scours and it lounges and decks itself out in a decadent scarlet rouge. Anxiety’s playground is within us. I’m always just a step away from the edge of death, a breath away, an act away. It is just beyond my reach. Like a plague, it’s incessant callings weaken my stride and I almost succumb to my knees, like the mad cow disease.