I’ve got the wettest eyes because I’m terrified of being consumed by a great big backlash, a tidal wave of anxiety and hyperventilation and panic attacks that kicks me out of normalcy and into a state of being permanently out of sync with the rest of the world. I’m scared I won’t live up to my own expectation of myself, the idea of me I’ve cast out into the world that I’m running to catch up with. Everything has been going so well but little pessimistic me, dressed in a long black cloak and top-hat (because that’s what pessimists wear) is just waiting to drop off and plummet towards rock bottom where I’ll have to scribble doctor’s numbers on scrap pieces of paper and sit in front of well-meaning ladies, biting my lip so I don’t cry and digging my nails into my thighs every time they say something nice and encouraging. I suppose if I pick apart the thread that has kept/ is keeping me together it isn’t the spider-web silk I pretend it is. What does it consist of apart from meditation downloads, French language tapes, bits of journal entries and positive mantras typed, copied and pasted in near hysterical rhythm? This thread is easy to pick up again. It’s not a hidden elixir I need to spend years tracing with the gallantry of some Harrison Ford action adventurer because in fact it’s all right here, filed in alphabetical order on my laptop. For now, it’s time to stop crying and instead let David Gray’s This Year’s Love seep into my tear stained brain because his music is beautiful and the rest will fall into place.