Anxiety is a word I had to learn as my stomach crumbled and my heart ran out of reasons to breathe; a stingy ink that was able to covertly tattoo itself in my thoughts.
Whilst it is a problem many have to face, given that we live in an era where 15-year-old blocks we carry around rule our 40,000 year old human brains, one would not expect that a writer entraps herself in the greatest peaks of anxiety whilst reading words inked by a Russian man almost 200 years ago.
“I am a sick man… I’m a spiteful man. I’m an unattractive man.” There’s a beautiful melancholy that conceals itself in Dostoevsky’s words, one so strong that it crosses generations and that still makes stomachs turn and hearts pump, years later. This is exactly how I feel, 200 years afterwards, and my pen finds no better way to translate such desperately euphoric feeling: it has been said, in better words than anyone could ink and this gives me anxiety.
Yes, brilliant minds inspire and evolve and multiply; but it would be undeniable to reject that whilst carving a pathway to a new masterpiece brilliant minds didn’t drown in anxiety whilst thinking about the brilliance that has already been inked or performed or created- even if for a split second.