Anxiety, the liar

It takes a lot of stepping in and out of yourself,
to know anxiety,
is a host you don’t entertain.
But most don’t travel in deep enough,
or away far enough,
to get an honest view of it all.
Instead, they entertain and feed it,
with the sugar and junk food of being,
with self coaxing,
blurring to a fine film of self loathing.

-Wesam El dahabi


My anxiety is a trap,
the battle in the middle of the ring,
me against myself,
knowledge and ignorance,
and the middleman trying to make them touch gloves,
is the black and white referee.

He’s black and white for a reason,
pardon me,
he’s a he and a she,
he is you and she is me,
bottled up anxiety,
is a fist and a cheek,
the powerful and the meek,
out cold, and last one standing on their feet,
in the mist of socialising breath, cigar and cheap perfume filled arena’s,
or alone with a street lamp in the street.

It’s seeing the punch coming,
knowing how to avoid it,
but knowing your bound by the rules of fate,
and copping it sweet.

It’s looking your opponent in their eyes,
when done is done,
smiling the smile of knowledge,
both of you aware,
you could have beaten him any time you chose,
but you were stunted,
and bound by what God wanted.

In essence,
your anxiety,
the hue that haunts you,
undecided on black or white,
trying to mix a palette of grey,
is a reluctance to submit,
you are most definitely not in charge.

You can very well have all the foresight in the world,
and knowledge of the sages,
it means nothing,
if you don’t accept,
what is written,
in ages,
in predestined pages.


Anxiety bomb

My anxiety is an axe murderer,
with a flower in its hand,
it urges me to slay my self,
with ill will and poetic demand,
and bitters and salt,
and honey and malt,
grains of irreconcilability through me,
malleable like mountains, in desert sands.

It’s wanting to read a book,
at the same time as another book,
and another book,
and not a page at a time,
but all the pages all the time,
so you’re defeated and read none of them.

Yes, its a decision to be indecisive,
it’s corrosive, dismissive, yet oh so inclusive,
we can’t filter out what matters,
because everything matters at once.

Anxiety is knowing you have two loaded fists,
unafraid of the world before you,
choosing to be passive,
but beating yourself to death.

It’s knowing the every crevice of my skin,
aching for its touch,
but not letting anyone in,
enticed by, but so afraid of sin.

What world am I living in,
how can I ever win,
when the dichotomy of existence,
lies between procrastination and doing,
smudged prose and is paper thin.

It’s the ambassador, the host of the party,
who invites everyone in,
locks the door,
says welcome, and pulls the pin.


the ambition of anxiety

I’ve found you lurking in the shadows,
bullying me to submit to you,
berating and mocking my conviction,
my relent to release my living to you.

I know who you  are and pity you,
anxiety, how lonely you must be,
to want to devote all your ambition to me.

There is no home for you here,
I don’t live in yesterdays grave,
nor tomorrow’s dream,
but stuck in the middle with me,
in the present, in the now,
you diminish,
you wither,
you lay like a wounded animal,
begging for my attention.


Anxiety is an invitation

I have a way of dealing with anxiety,
Before it rears it’s ugly head.
I’ve learned to do this from a young age on my own.
I realise that I’m on the sea,
I can’t control which direction the winds will blow.
I understand that at times I need to take the rudder,
And steer myself into neutral waters,
And then let go of the rudder,
Let the sea dictate where I’ll be.
If I fight it, it mocks me,
Makes my efforts miserly,
Looks at me in disapproval, pathetically.
If I acknowledge it, it turns it’s violent waves,
Into a gentle rock,
A lullaby’s caress,
A soothing reconciliation.
At times it makes me wait,
At others, it’s instant.
Of course, the sea can be your metaphor, your allegory.
Some prefer to relinquish their reigns to God,
Others, to nature,
Others to humans.
Whatever your comfort,
We have to acknowledge the inevitable.
No, we are not in control, release to that which is.
Then ironically you resume control.
You decide when and where, dictate how, and how long,
You remain in the state.
You decide to use it as fuel, as leverage along the waves,
Up the mountain, across the terrain, through the thick of jungle.
You decide the amount you wish to stay in any of those elements,
To pull from them what you need for inspiration,
To take or leave what you need for relaxation,
Reservation, annihilation of that ever tugging and demanding carnal self.
That self that seeks preservation through ego.
Sever the ego’s needs, make them defunct by telling it,
“I’m letting go, you don’t own me, I own you, I’ll steer you, you’re in my waters,
I know these paths, I can sniff these tracks, these peaks I’ve stood atop before.
I know, you thought I didn’t recognise you, you thought you could disguise yourself, I see you, stay tame, give me what I want, give me back my name, I feel no shame in admitting to your manipulations, but I’ve caught you now and that dark crevice you hide in will be burned with light, if you don’t stop whispering to me”.

I’ve posted this before, this quote brings me back to calm waters in an instant.
I don’t propose to know your answer and how you deal with it and I have a myriad of other things I do too, almost automatically now to help alleviate it.
I have never been to a psychologist and am not judging anyone that does, you need to find your way of dealing with it, mine is to not allow anyone reigns to my horse, no human has the right to tell me how or how not to be, including a professional. For you, it may be the sea you need to find your sails. Either way, I hope you can find peace.
Anyway, the quote is from Remembering God by Charles Le Gai Eaton who is a master of poetic prose and non fiction historical, religious, spiritual marvel.


Fatalism, as an attitude to life in general, is retrospective. Only when something has happened can we say that it had to happen. The notion that it makes people inactive is disproved by experience. The courage of the Prophet’s Companions, going into battle against overwhelming odds, must certainly have owed something to the conviction that the outcome of the battle was in God’s hands, not theirs, and that they would die not a moment before or after “a time appointed”. If their time had not yet come, the enemy’s weaponry would prove to be no more dangerous than a child’s toys; if they were fated to meet their end that day, nothing they did could prevent this. In our time, countless men and women suffer extreme stress in their work and this is often due to the belief that “everything depends on me”. For the Muslim, everything depends on God; nothing “depends on me”. Paradoxical as it may seem, the conviction that all is pre-ordained is liberating, whereas belief in total freedom of choice creates, for those who hold it, a prison of anxiety and uncertainty. It is for us to act. The outcome of our actions is God’s business, not ours. It is for us to do what is right under all circumstances. Subsequent failures does not mean that right action was, after all, wrong.