Days are long. I spend a lot of time thinking and a lot of that time thinking is time ruminating. I always think about what could go wrong before thinking about what could go right. Some days are worse than others, but each day produces its own situations of worry. Most of the time the worrying is done before the event has even taken place, trying to predict every sort of outcome and possible consequence for each given behavior. This process is tiresome. It takes a lot of energy and attention to constantly be in my head and, consequently, it takes away from much of my daily experience. I spend less time enjoying the pleasures of the moment and more time away from the moment, trapped in my own internal mind deliberating upon likely trivial details of my daily existence.
No matter how aware I become of my own neuroticism, it doesn’t seem to go away. You can’t escape from your own head. Regardless if you travel, surround yourself with people, or distract yourself with things, you’re always peering through the same windows. The same mind watches from behind them. It is always active and always aware. It works constantly and finds more and more problems and flaws, as well as possible problems and possible flaws. Then, once again, you find yourself circulating the familiar cycle of analyzing and troubleshooting. For each hypothetical scenario there is a unique solution that needs to be found. And for each solution it needs to be thought about and mentally simulated.
It is a complete process and one that is constantly at work, for new problems are continually being born and brought into existence, only to disappear with the passage of time. What I angsted over last week is different then this one, but each issue felt just has urgent, just as pressing; each time feels new, but also very similar to the last and the time before that. There is no end solution that I see. The cycle continues and along with it so do I. I carry forward uncertain of my life events. I will always be uncertain because that’s the nature of the future; it is ambiguous. It is shrouded in mystery, yet I think I can know. I think I can infer or predict, or do something to give me true foresight. But, I can never attain it. I can never rest in the relaxing bliss of knowing the truth about the future, for there are always unknowns.
Those unknowns are what I search for; they are why I can’t rest. They are what I seek to eliminate and what I must face with each passing day.