A prick to the arm as I graze it with the needle
This small reminder is what I need to keep looking up,
Talking, smiling, walking, plugging into the reality
That it is eight-thirty at night and not one on a Saturday
Don't close your eyes, don't let your mind wander off
These words are keeping my feet from swirling up into the chaotic nebula of my vivid subconscious
These words are keeping me here
But still they come
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I let my guard down.
They sink in like a train, whizzing past as you stand too close to the platform
Beautifully cinematic, almost orchestrated
They are a sad aesthetic of the mind
The moving pictures show up in rapid-fire snapshots
I recognize the faces and know what's going to happen
My body lurches and seizes with every image that is punched out in front of me
I am succumbing to the horror
And then it's over.
The reality is likely that I stood utterly still for probable seconds
My eyes glazed over and my face changed ever so slightly
A shadow passes my brow, my breath is drawn quick
And now my heart pounds, my vessels expand with blood, and the recovery comes in deep gasps.
Look at your hands! Notice your feet!
I desperately cling to these exercises. My feet are on the ground. My hands are shaking, gripping.