half awake
I don't know what I want to say. Something profound, of course, though I'm not much good at that. I'm looking to feel real again. I listen to the morning birds; I try to take note of the funny, flowered sprouts in my too-long grass. It's all sideways. I sleep poorly for weeks, sleep too deeply for weeks. I drag the trash can down the gravel driveway and try to set my steps to the rumble of the wheels on rocks. I cry in the car, hyperventilate until my nose goes numb, take ten deep breaths and tell myself I can't wipe the tears away until I can feel my face again. Go to a birthday party. Another birthday party. A funeral. Another birthday party. Another funeral. A wedding. I try to read a book. Watch a movie with friends; have an anxiety attack in the theatre. Delete work e-mails. Lay awake in bed until two in the morning, heart pounding. Consider getting outdoors more. Consider getting on new medications. Consider who I am, what I want. Worry that the fear will never leave me. Trace the fur where the grain patterns meet on Willow’s nose over and over. Sit on the porch and stare at nothing until a bird calls nearby and shakes me from the trance. I’m half awake in the world, stuck in a space within myself. I hardly dream at all.