The shadows in my mind refuse to be trapped and caged in understandable speech. With that ambiguity, they can harness the power of my fears, and leave me babbling in what might possibly the early stages of dementia. Oh, how I've tried to express the concerns to others, yet the oppressive silence that I receive back makes me question the very fabric of my reality.
"Am I making sense, or just written off as phantasmal nonsense?"
Would we understand the fears and anxiety better, if we moved their targets from inside my head onto some of the more heinous acts being committed in this modern world? ...or would you argue that such outward-directed hysteria might be explained as, or by clever gaslighting?
...and another consternation appears, torn from the pages of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance": Would I let myself stay paralyzed by trying to make sweeping statements about the town's walls, when it would be far more useful to focus in on one brick?
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