The Hunt.

Biding your time is anxiety in the palm of your hand.

At any point and time, you can cup it close. Cherish it. It’s the problem to circulate around all your other problems, a predatory creature stalking the outskirts of life.

Your life.

When you hold it most dear, in that way you do when the world starts to drag you down, it will remind you of every coming obstacle you’ve yet overcome.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you hope it never goes away. The wait, the idea of waiting; you want it to stay. It’s a familiar spirit you’ve nurtured, a beast of infinite burden. When the rest has fallen into place, you still have this anxiety at your disposal.

Now ask me why I’m tired.

Always tired.

Cheers, Kat