I’m a worrier. It’s what I do. I worry. If there is a single thing I have to do, have done, will do, might do, could be doing, should be doing, did not do, will not do, have not done (and so on) I will worry about it. I am worrying about it. Because they snowball. They build up. They multiply. I still regularly worry now about things from almost fifteen years.
I worry about the past, about the decisions I’ve made and the path(s) they have led me down. I worry about the future, too, and the decisions that I have made/am making about how I want to move forwards with my life.
But it’s all meaningless. Things I have dedicated HUGE amounts of time to over the last year or so (since I decided to “sort my life out”), I have begun to worry about unstoppably. AS WELL AS the the things so old, from so long ago…
How can ones mind be free to create, learn, soar and transcend when it is mired in regret and distraction about the most trivial of matters?
It is only by escaping ones fear that one can achieve. An idea I understand and try, try, try to live by. But it’s tough. And it’s scary.
To put this in direct, “biggest worry I have” terms, WHAT IF NO ONE WANTS TO READ MY NOVEL???
We are all selfish at heart.
Fear and worry beget regret. And regret begets further fear and further worry. We must, I must, not look at what has gone wrong before, but astutely look towards what may be, and work and strive towards those possibilities in a measured and realistic manner.
Urgh. I fucking hate adult life.