Member-only story
I started this week — on very little sleep — strangely, mercifully, without the underlying anxiety that I’ve grown accustomed to; that has been second-nature. I’ve no idea why really — why the anxiety dried up.
Anxiety is blind and that’s what makes it anxiety. It’s fear without a face.
It reflects — mirror-like — a deeper (deeper than deep) intuition of insecurity. It is ontological. A primordial awareness of death.
Anxiety is at once the most and least modern of conditions. It is stone-age and phone-age at the same time.
I don’t really know where it comes from and I don’t know why it goes away; I don’t know why I feel it creeping back; why it feels inevitable that it will creep back.
