Tell Me What You See
Tell Me What You See anxiety stories

ajs1 Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
Sometime we don't know what we are looking at.

Tell Me What You See

Look. Look. Look.

Tell me what you see.

Do you see the sun? An ocean? A tree? A person?

Do you see anything at all?

Can you see the sweet influence of anything tugging you in a never ending direction?

Which direction can this anything take you?

North. East. South. West.

Is there a direction you aren't willing to try?

The starting line appears in front of you.

It's vibrant. Daunting. Intimidating. Scary.

Tell me what you see.

Take a step, but wait! The once line is gone.

You circle in a huff, desperate to find where your starting point is supposed to be?

Tell me what you see.

Run. RUN. Hurry. Find it.

Tell me what you see.

Are you afraid to see nothing at all?

Off the horizon, you see it there.

That daunting and terrifying starting line.

Except, now instead of it being a line, it has become a flashing beacon waiting to be pressed like a button.

What the fuck. How is this any better? This is worse.

Run away. Never look back.

Why does something so promising send shivers down to my toes.


But where? How? Why?

With shaken breaths I walk towards the start button.

As soon as I think I have gotten close enough to reach, another canyon requires your attention to be crossed. When does this end? Why am I doing this again?

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Oh right. The starting point. Here I come.

Walking farther and farther towards the beginning.

Tell me what you see.

Is this fog and am I getting high off the illusion that I am actually getting somewhere? Ha!

Arms are stretched out hoping to guide me. Fog. Clouds. Illusions all around me.

Why. How far have I come? How much longer to go?




Why is there a pier in all of this fog?

Who put this minuscule boat here?

How am I even supposed to squeeze into this?

Why isn't there any room for anyone else?

Arms are heavy, but my mind feels heavier.

Something lustrous at the edge of the dock grabs my attention.

A single coin. Just one.

What does this even mean? A lousy piece of metal? Seriously?

There it is again. The flashing start button, seizing my attention.

Here goes nothing.

You flick the coin into the boat and sell your sanity for the mysterious unknown of the beginning of anything.

Tell me what you see.

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