There’s a strange comfort in worry. It gives you someone to sit with. It may be a grim company you keep, but at least you don’t have to be alone with your unease. It’s a funny thing, how we have our wires crossed. We’re programmed to seek out balance and contentedness, but when our minds feel an itch we can’t ignore it, we must scratch. Telling a human not to worry is like telling a horse to take flight. We’re going to dwell anyway, we might as well not be alone. 

It helps, however, to imagine it in the vastness of time. Even in the limited span of our life. Little moments that consume us like cosmic fly traps. A whole day discolored by their distastefulness, when stacked against the years of our lives, they fade into shades of beige. Completely unremarkable. In the light of that gradient, I’ll admit that my worries lighten. They take me for a brisk walk as opposed to a somber march. But nothing will change the fact that I’m here now, and someone has to live through it. 

“Of all the divine threads in the loom of our universe, why must mine be sewn with this chintzy yarn?” I wonder. But everyone finds a thread running through their life that carries nothing but chaos along its course fibers. It will always be something because that thread will always be bound to us like a bad penny. It doesn’t mean we have to spend it.