Accidental angst

I am lying in my bed five flights up, and my day, which nothing interrupts, is like a clock-face without hands. As something that has been lost for a long time reappears one morning in its old place, safe and sound, almost newer than when it vanished, just as if someone had been taking care of it---: so, here and there on my blanket, lost feelings out of my childhood lie and are like new. All the lost fears are here again.
I prayed to rediscover my childhood, and it has come back, and I feel that it is just as difficult as it used to be, and that growing older has served no purpose at all.
Rilke: [Fears]

Something from which I've been shrinking for weeks has arrived: a silence. Stillness. It's time to lie down, curl up, and nurse wounds. Quietly, like animals lie when they need to heal. Weeping the way some pray--without announcement or ceremony, choking on emotion. Language sticks in the clicking gap between my heart and throat. This anguish has nothing to do with anything because it is everything--all emotions, my own and those I've borrowed from friends and lovers and music across time.

I can hear people calling, asking "What's wrong?" And I'll say "nothing. Nothing." Over and over. Slack-jawed. Nothing but echoes of nothing. "Nothing will come of nothing, speak again."