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Life in the Fast Lane: Anxiety and Me

I never breathe, not deeply, not with intent. If I think about the rhythm of my breathing I end up dizzy. I have the terrible habit of holding my breath too long as I  mull over any thought.

There is a timepiece tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. Without even opening my eyes, I know what the clock reads. I am restless. Sleep is as fleeting as the breath that escapes me.

Anxious for a miracle, night becomes day and then it is night. Thirty-minute slices are cut out of my fugue state approximately once a week. The sizzling of my brain cells starts now at 4:30 in the morning. Snapping open like tightly wound roller blinds, my protective eyelids cannot be shut.

I think of time, all of the time. There is not enough time. Never enough time. I have run out of time. I am too late.

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Published inWriting