I am probably saying this one last time: Bad things happen, life is unfair. People describe their experiences of suffering from anxiety that make it feel like a collective experience. Just that, they don’t stop a certain section of their life, they aren’t paralysed from shock, unable to comprehend their life. Their hearts race, my heart felt like it’d stop any moment, as if I was physically dying from the inside. Now I tend to not speak about it, all the place-time displacements, and actions based on made-up scenarios in my head. Sometimes I miss the multiple voices having a roundtable conference inside my head, afraid that I lost my ability to express, to write, when I killed them. I often wondered in the year gone by, was it my madness that brought me stories? I spent months in silence, looking for words that used to flow like blood through my veins. I did the only thing I could do then, in my search for words, I read. What is the point of reading so much? I don’t read so mu...