Anxiety can make one very small,
compressing you within,
it can keep you away like a mothball,
with depression as its conjoined twin.
The light draws us out,
but not for long,
however we stay alert – on the look out,
not sure if we belong.
We see others as butterflies,
fluttering with ease,
with their calm – we idealise,
where as we would be lost in a strong breeze.
When waking our hearts burst,
our minds race,
life pulling at us – being coerced,
forced to adorn our poker face.
We are like moths among the whisperings,
manoeuvring through the polite conversation,
like candles pulling us in – glistening,
so familiar – marking the end of our adaptation.
This painting and poem were prompted by a line in the Great Gatsby ,
but the line “like moths among the whisperings” made me think of how it feels to live with anxiety disorders whilst among others who don’t. It conjured up this image of anxious people as moths and non-anxious people as butterflies.
The irony is that most of the people who visited the parties in The Great Gatsby were probably butterflies. However even there I am sure a few moths anxiously found there way around , maybe with some dutch courage to aid their cause.
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