On anxiety

There isn’t enough air in here.

My pulse is in every inch of my body. The balls of my feet, my ringing ears, the cluttered caverns of my chest. Its beat is fast, loud, relentless. Why does it keep going?

There is not enough air in here.

I need to tell someone, anyone. Tell them. The air.

Where is the one who is in charge?

Stop. Take one deep breath. Fill my presence with wind, suck it inward like the tide pulls back from the shore. Hold it hostage, wondering how long until the ransom is paid.

This isn’t working. Someone must be taking more than their fair share. Hoarding. Selfish. Stockpiling for the end of the world.

But, maybe they’re just taking what they deserve.

Maybe some of us get more air than others. Maybe when I breathe, the oxygen won’t walk into me. Maybe it is not meant for me.

Maybe there is enough air in here, just not enough for me.

Written 1/1/17

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