"Drag your thoughts away from your troubles... by the ears, by the heels, or any other way you can manage it." - Mark Twain
"Some men storm imaginary Alps all their lives, and die in the foothills cursing difficulties which do not exist." - Edgar Watson Howe
Worry is a demonic embryo, its umbilical cord attached directly to my peace of mind and contentedness. It draws creative energy from them while imparting a deadly pathogen of anger, haste, and anxiety in a sticky mire of mental paralysis. The foul sinister infant spoils achievement by robbing me of the pleasure of attainment and eating the beauty of "Now" by a bloody spell of “What If”. To what do I owe the conception of this deceitful child? The copulation occurred by a rape of my mind from circumstances beyond my control. I thought it best then that I destroy it, to rid the world of this scourge. Many coat hangers of those attempts at abortion litter my thoughts. The wounds I inflicted are worse than the thing itself. Still, I made it this far, although I see it kick in my belly, its grasping hands pressing against my skin, deforming the beauty of birth with its sickening form. There is one antidote, a thing just as evasive yet, powerful enough to counter the poison of the demon Worry - my lover Faith. I follow her close and with every wonderful kiss she imparts a temporary immunity to my anxious contractions. There are nights I lay in her arms, as the thunder approaches, and instead of frightening me, it provides a romance for our affair, our bed alive with the fiery passion of battle. Faith, how is it you can take my dreary anxious nights and give me smiles of joy in the mornings after? The battle rages on, the sickness only cured by death, wherein Faith and I will join in eternal matrimony, our children never cursed with the vile afflictions of Worry.