inspirational anxiety

it all stops.
that’s it,
that’s the measurement problem.
when you focus on something
your intensions for the finished product
disrupt
the flow.

not that it was any use;
an unintelligible sequence of
anxious monologue
no real beginning,
no end.
masses of middle ground,
directionless.
some form of coping mechanism.
when you don’t recognise colour anymore.
when the objects in your house
no longer seem like yours;
not even this world seems like yours.
stuck in spectator mode.
i suppose that’s the psychological manifestation of felling things are “out of your control”.
(as though they were ever in your control).

his voice comes back;
you pretend to be there,
“where’s the bathroom?”
what’s the question?