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Y'know, I really hope I can pull off the cool mysterious deep writer persona. That'd be sick.

Message to Readers


Behind the Mirror

April 30, 2019


My lungs are on fire, my body burns, my vision is black and my sweat is cold.
I reach out for what I cannot grab. There's nothing but air, but my lungs suck it in and quickly reject it. 
Shaking, jittery, flailing in a much too open space that feels as if it's squeezing me lifeless. 

Laying on the floor I let my sobs and gasps or breath roll over me, I submerge myself into it. 
The more I fight the longer it takes.
Cheeks wet with salt from my leaky eyes I embrace the panic and fear that racks my body, down to my bones. 
I think I might die.
My mind runs and runs and runs because my body isn't.

Air seeps in slowly, like a blow up mattress slowly filling. 
Or perhaps deflating via tear. 
The panic seeps out, and air returns.

Chest empty. 
Red and splotchy I sigh. 
This never ending spiral down down down.
I sink further into the quicksand.
Time fades around me.

I'm a messy bed with tangled up sheets.
An unkempt mind that you'd never guess.
Immaculate organization, cleanliness, obsessive mind.  
Always racing, 
always racing.
Mind rushing, thoughts running. 
After a while you forget why you're running. 


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