| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Josh Stewart is an English student at the University of Toronto during most
of the year, and a camp counsellor during the summer. Josh finds inspiration in city streets, late nights, stars, and the view from windows. |
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| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| THE ANXIETY OF POSSIBILITY |
| by Josh Stewart |
| My pillow screams in my ear,
and the moonlight seeps through the curtains and into my eyes, and the mattress pokes me in the ribs every time I am close to drifting off into the uncertainties that tomorrow can bring. It is precisely this that has me rolling in the sheets shedding clothing because I am too hot, crawling back into it because I am too cold. It is my indecision that has me caught in this feverish fear of the future; the anxiety of possibility has settled itself into my stomach, and it cannot be swatted away like old spider webs or vines that tangle me up with all the virgin roads whose dirt has never been tainted with a footprint. Yet I cannot stomp myself onto every path that presents itself; a single footprint on every path merely means that I will not get to see the end of any one of them. Anxiety is my caffeine, and I am more aware than ever as these days pass by. What is it that has marked me, separated me from the rest of the world? Is it simply that the embrace of my bed does not rock me gently into sleep, no matter how many times I turn from side to side? Perhaps the anxiety of my arms has exiled me, for it is obvious that they desire someone to hold, someone more than the haunting shadow that hovers above me like a video camera’s watchful eye. The sheets sneak around me like chains, and confine me to the fear of waking up with this single bed as my only companion. Am I sweating out my sins as I throw off the blankets that burn me like guilt? I promised to be perfect, but even the most promising promise is only a single footprint in the dirt. The end of the road is never near nor far, and always seems to be a single step away. My mind paces the same crossroads that I have worn a trench into with my footfalls. I am rapidly sinking below the surface, but I can’t seem to get away from the fact that I am wearing the ground into my place of exile. I have taken a step or two along every possibility, but the end of the road still seems not near nor far. I am no closer to sleep, despite the fact that I have worn out the crossroads, worn out every possibility, worn out the soles of my shoes and the depths of my mind; still there is no obvious answer. The anxiety of possibility is still echoing like a footfall, and the answers that I seek are still fleeing like sleep. |
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| Sept. 2006 |
| 67 |