at the library in Beacon, NY. An elderly woman with an accent is speaking to the librarian at front desk very languidly. She seems disoriented. The staff seems to be practicing patience. Honestly she is presenting as though she is on drugs. She’s wearing all red. So is a young lady next to her. Visually it’s nice. The sound of this woman’s voice is simultaneously irritating and almost sleep-inducing. There is something soothing about this kind of voice. I do experience anxiety. I am human. I’m not always manifested as the mythical creature, warrior princess that I’m made out to be. I don’t dig my anxiety though. Monkey brain isn’t the most ideal thinking space. Also my anxieties are rooted in falsities or my historical role of reinforcement of delusion to appease. Sigh. I can’t anymore. My energy is for me and healing and goodness. I can though and that scares me. I don’t want those undercurrents to take me. I don’t want to do the wrong thing, ever. I don’t even want to talk about this.