I woke up AGAIN with anxiety in the pit of my stomach

I don't know or rather I don't understand why when I wake up I can't return to sleep, I can't calm down. My uneasiness is annoying me; I know it isn't from academic work, far from it.

What is it?

Out of the Victorian writers I've read this semester, I most appreciated Matthew Arnold's work.

Parts of his poem "The Buried Life"

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved 20
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb?

~~~~

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course; 50
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.

~~~~~~

Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours, 80
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 90

[His poem questions the reason why we are here and what we are doing; he wants to be on the right path of life, but how will he, or anyone, know this. (All of this is explained by my professor, not going to lie, didn't read it until after he lectured on it.)

His poem is basically on how there are two selves of a person, one that everyone knows and that the person knows, and another that the no one knows, not even the person, him/her self, because it is always repressed. The first of the poem I put here asks whether love can unlock the mysteries of a person and goes into that if someone were to try to say their true thoughts or feelings, they'd be rebuked because that is how society is. Additionally, people's desires aren't that different, but because people are scared of being mocked, they keep it to themselves.

The second part of the poem ("But often...") explains that we get glimpses inside of us, a feeling that you want to do something, a calling of some kind, "unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course". We're always in search of what we truly want to do, what our purpose is from the universe.

The last part is my favorite part, it says that it's on rare occasion, but a lover can help you re-access yourself. Only through love can you find yourself again. "A bolt is shot back somewhere in your breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again". "A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze". ]


Sometimes there are times where I feel like I understand perfectly who I am and what I want to do with my life. Yet, all the answers disappear and I'm left alone again, clumsily tripping around trying to realize why I'm here. Though, the part about love is cliched, I think he meant to say that when you find that right person--emphasis on rarity of it--that somehow the union will enable you to reopen your eyes to what you love to do, what your original course was.