Panic. I imagine that when most people think of panic it's wide eyed pulse racing immediately following the realization that there is something in the dark and it is about to do grievous harm. That sort of thing that in a moment twists the guts and stops the heart and even keeps breath from passing lips with its sheer power and weight. Cold sweat. Numbness. Sharp, defined clarity of awareness. Sometimes you get some good with your lumps.
Panic swells. Panic rises, not a tide, but a tsunami; it comes to engulf all and leave cold, wet Ragnarok in its wake and, like a tidal wave, it usually won't give you enough warning to do anything about it. One moment you're staring at something so much bigger than you and the next you've been swept away. When it seizes you, you're caught, powerless. Resistance, as they say, futile. The moment passes and the daily resumes and you're deposited, shaken and torn, back into your life.
When I think of panic I think of waking up. The cold, creeping shock that I am no longer dreaming lays out the red carpet for the cavalcade of insecurities, anxieties and outright terrors of the everyday. But my tidal wave looms on the horizon, constantly churning, twisting inexorably towards shores that may never actually feel its relentless obliteration. I'm water boarding myself. It's a kind of Hell that knows a thousand names and sometimes I just imagine myself lying in bed, furiously working the bloody, throbbing pulp that still somehow passes for a hard cock, wondering why the fuck I can't just get off. To be honest, I would probably stop jerking off if my cock came apart that bad from all the abuse, so maybe the metaphor just sucks.
But to be fair, I'm pretty much constantly thinking about my prick.
Which helps me to function as a human being since, without the distraction, I would continue to fixate on the thousands of crippling fears that constantly assault my senses. Some of them, admittedly, are much easier to cope with than others. Whether or not my car will start in the morning, for example, is much less gripping than where the Hell am I going to live next week. How do I lose those last few pounds doesn't really stack up on what the fuck have I done with the last decade of my life and can I afford lunch today, a daunting little number itself, pales in comparison to what the fuck am I doing. What the fuck am I doing?
Slipshod, slapdash, pantseat shit. I wish I could say that my daredevil-may-care lifestyle has left me broken and dying in a young handsome corpse while I tell my wonderful stories to whomever wishes to bask but the fact is that I've just moved from one comfortable waste to the next. Which is not to say that I don't have some fine, fantastic stories to tell, but maybe my greatest anxiety, the root of this constant panic, my desire for more. I need more. I want more. I always want more. Being greedy, envious, lustful, these are not entirely bad things. Being all of these things and lazy, to boot, is a serious fucking problem. Throw in a cup or two of raw cowardice and you've got a sad little man who's often, alternately, an angry little man.
I wish that when I imagined panic that it would be a single terrifying moment.
I'm going to check my bank balance now.
Panic swells. Panic rises, not a tide, but a tsunami; it comes to engulf all and leave cold, wet Ragnarok in its wake and, like a tidal wave, it usually won't give you enough warning to do anything about it. One moment you're staring at something so much bigger than you and the next you've been swept away. When it seizes you, you're caught, powerless. Resistance, as they say, futile. The moment passes and the daily resumes and you're deposited, shaken and torn, back into your life.
When I think of panic I think of waking up. The cold, creeping shock that I am no longer dreaming lays out the red carpet for the cavalcade of insecurities, anxieties and outright terrors of the everyday. But my tidal wave looms on the horizon, constantly churning, twisting inexorably towards shores that may never actually feel its relentless obliteration. I'm water boarding myself. It's a kind of Hell that knows a thousand names and sometimes I just imagine myself lying in bed, furiously working the bloody, throbbing pulp that still somehow passes for a hard cock, wondering why the fuck I can't just get off. To be honest, I would probably stop jerking off if my cock came apart that bad from all the abuse, so maybe the metaphor just sucks.
But to be fair, I'm pretty much constantly thinking about my prick.
Which helps me to function as a human being since, without the distraction, I would continue to fixate on the thousands of crippling fears that constantly assault my senses. Some of them, admittedly, are much easier to cope with than others. Whether or not my car will start in the morning, for example, is much less gripping than where the Hell am I going to live next week. How do I lose those last few pounds doesn't really stack up on what the fuck have I done with the last decade of my life and can I afford lunch today, a daunting little number itself, pales in comparison to what the fuck am I doing. What the fuck am I doing?
Slipshod, slapdash, pantseat shit. I wish I could say that my daredevil-may-care lifestyle has left me broken and dying in a young handsome corpse while I tell my wonderful stories to whomever wishes to bask but the fact is that I've just moved from one comfortable waste to the next. Which is not to say that I don't have some fine, fantastic stories to tell, but maybe my greatest anxiety, the root of this constant panic, my desire for more. I need more. I want more. I always want more. Being greedy, envious, lustful, these are not entirely bad things. Being all of these things and lazy, to boot, is a serious fucking problem. Throw in a cup or two of raw cowardice and you've got a sad little man who's often, alternately, an angry little man.
I wish that when I imagined panic that it would be a single terrifying moment.
I'm going to check my bank balance now.