I wrote this poem years ago, trying to explain and capture a certain feeling. An intense anxiety coupled with a desire to interact, to read, to flip between channels, web pages, build a model, read a book, watch a movie – flipping between different apps on my phone over and over. Just punching wires into sockets trying to suck up enough juice to lay quiet, to lay still.
It’s clearly rooted in anxiety, mis-directed psychic energy. It can be turned to
nothing productive, nothing useful, nothing creative. Just more and more black wires leading to empty pages , burning through the html of the universe.
I’ve been feeling it a lot lately.
I wouldn’t call it a hell, but it’s definitely one of the tunnels that lead there.