I reach up and out, Nothing. Is there something that is darker than black? Such a color that describes darkness at its' core? Nothing. I panic. I cannot breathe. I feel claustrophobic but nothing is close to me. I reach out grabbing and clawing at nothing. Wait there is something, My fear widens because I cannot see. What am I touching? It is coming close. I cannot grab it or push it. It is hard and smooth but yet it is nothing. It comes closer now above and below me. No longer floating in nothing but standing on something, Something that is nothing. I gasp for air. Now in front and behind me, Above and below me, It is squeezing me now. Forming me into shape. How can nothing force me to be something? Forming me. Molding me. Cannot breathe, Cannot escape, Cannot think, Can only scream into, The Nothingness.
This is from my perspective of the anxiety I have dealt with throughout my life.
It's sort of funny in the saddest way. To find pieces of myself in a man that was never really a part of my life at all. I wish I knew you well enough to have memories other than playing trivia at a table by the bar watching you stay well past last call. Fighting with your wife over who would drive home. Spending every other weekend you had with me staring at the bottom of empty bottles. And slurring "I love you's" like I might believe them. Isn't it all I ever wanted? To be loved by you? And does anything ever really change? Can people really change? You were sober for 5 years after you almost lost your life. But now I keep waking up to drunk text messages. Parallel to your drunken confessions in the middle of the night while six year old me tried to comfort you. Biting my tongue and staring at the cieling fan so I wouldn't cry. I don't have to hide the tears anymore because you're in another city and I won't ever tell you how bad you hurt me. But Dad I keep letting men hurt me who tell me they love me at 2 am and I wish I didn't feel like it's because of you.
We were two hearts torn by the wedge of reason. We could no longer deny the fire-and-gasoline effect on our flammible souls - cursed by the pride of our maturing minds. No longer blinded by infatuation (desperation would rather be blind)
You believed the older folk and who was I to pilfer? Perhaps, I believed them, too. The storms of our souls still rage - afflicted by the unrelenting -isms. My ego says that I can save you, Survival tells me to mind my own, Depression tells me your better off And holds me accountable for your being alone.