Spend your whole life feeling anxious about everything, unable to breathe,not knowing that you were even anxious or that anxiety itself was anything more than just a word people used when something didnt make sense. and then you think. and overthink, make excuses, get scared, hold back. Thirty years and then a person steps through your life, many conversations over many months, real love, and everything unravels. You realize that the life youve lived was wasted at your doorstep while you watched it happen, scared to step into. Fear of failing, fear of falling, fear of quitting, fear of starting, fear of faking, fear of loving, fear of lasting, fear of hurting, fear of missing, living, wanting, trying, moving, moving on, letting go, yet somehow always leaving or finding reason to do so and call it progress becasue youre the best at convincing yourself of anything that will shield you from this reality, but still you fake it and call it progress. Progress is post anything. Post is only after, and pasted to your eyelids. Post is only after youve learned to live and love yourself…Ive learned neither. Ive loved hard, I love hard, and simultaneously hated myself, Im in this story, doubted and shrouded in irrelevant opinions and shallow hymns. Here Ive hid and let live, and left myself saddened, over again. Lovely cause I loathe, alone becasue I chose. Love from only a distance, for only a time, in only the places Ive never tried.