You are like a moth to a flame of anxiety. Every moment you so want to stray from the warm glow of painful, worrisome order and descend into the darkness of chaos. The light, which you have always correlated with goodness and security, is too strong from which to avert your gaze. You hum obsessively around it, examining it, considering all of its forms, seemingly safe from predators, but completely at the mercy of its will. You can feel every second of your meager existence tick away while you buzz aimlessly. Temporary distractions pull you momentarily from the light: an amazing meal, a passionate kiss, a difficult workout, a funny joke, a beer, two beers, a fight, an orgasm. But the light glows even brighter after the release. The immense heat it gives off feels both familiar and incredibly painful. You can’t leave, but you know you can’t stay. There are too many other moths hovering around it, and the noise is unbearable. You pray for sweet silence, for calm, for peace. In the distance a tree branch becomes visible, and you fly to it, leaving the flame, no longer identifying as anxious, but not knowing what to identify as at all. Your new life consumes you, and the need for distractions feels foreign, barely visible, like a flickering flame in the distance.