The afternoon hysteria

I’ve arduously thought how to commence this ill-fated blog – one of the many that succumbed to poignant lack of discipline and internal inabilities to act upon existing passions.

At their core, my writings will attempt to convey a sense of soul-drenching hysteria – the one that comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comfortable. I will not try to make you feel the way I constantly feel, but my wish is to blow the anxious daffodils in the wind until we all remain gloriously naked and pure.

I will be honest. I’ve engaged in the most impressive mental gymnastics throughout the last 7 years in a constant quest to understand why I should start writing again. The answer was blissfully disappointing.

The obsessive overthinking that my closed ones have grown to hate and love made me reconsider my entire writing history. Have I ever actually written anything? I would pour hours over dusty words without any sign of recognition or emotional resemblance. What is the actual point? In the event that I wrote anything, what is the worth of the written word? The value of the unseen will be dwelt with later because, to be frank, who’s more qualified to write about such a majestic craft but the person who’s unable to keep a consistent habit out of it? Fantastic.


 

 

The title of this introductory text is afternoon hysteria just because I feel an unquenched thirst to express my bizarre anxieties and depressive refractions from the melancholic prism that my mind is. I also think that it is an appropriate induction into the bizarre world of domed and sheltered fears, doubts and eternal angst.

The afternoon hysteria is the feeling one gets when nothing triggers any resemblance of happiness in him anymore. It is the last bus stop before the internal gates of anguish. It is the last hook one hangs from before he reaches deep into oblivion. It’s when the clock ticks 6 PM and the soul is empty and the mind is cluttered. And we’re still here – the emotionally disenfranchised who are hoping that the 6 PM hysteria will eventually shimmer away upon achieving eternal piece of mind. But until then, as one does, we’re hopelessly hoping.

I have battled the burden of the setting sun ever since I’ve stopped looking outwards and started looking inwards. I wish I could attribute a sense of poetic justice to the afternoon melancholy but the issue is grounded. From early morning until late into the starry night my gamut of emotions fluctuates alike the pulse of the dry desert underneath a stormy night.

The day is made for meaningless distractions and I allow myself to forgive and forget who I am and what I am made of while the sun is directly above my head. But when the flat shadows and matte sunlight drift away to make space for the crepuscular, I bow my head in a dreadful slumber. The sharp edge between sunlight and the lack thereof siphons my will to live. I am not describing a suicidal stance towards the natural and cyclical rhythms between day and night, just an acknowledgement of the world’s force upon me. And the world is forceful with me and I am grateful for the ability to empathize with it.

But why is this taken place? What is triggering the afternoon hysteria and how is it unfolding upon my life? These sheer questions utter vitriolic thoughts that echo into the silence. The post-lunch anguish is an existential dread, forced upon us by the burden of living. If your feet are deeply entrenched in a co-owned global consciousness, you might be eligible to shift your mood when the clock ticks 6 PM. It’s an universal burden, alike Sisyphus’ boulder, which – unlike the myth – is chasing us down the hill.

All of these are primordial questions and I am still in my humble inception to discover who I am and why I am here. We’ll cross that bridge together and until then, beware of the 6 PM.

 

 

Thank you for reading.

Alex.

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