There are days when I can hear myself breathing. When that is the only thing I hear. The world is rife with noise and riotous with sounds of things living, but there are days when everything is muffled to a background, discordant beat and all I can hear is the sound of air being inhaled through my nose.
It is during these days when I am afraid to lie down, as I fear -- yes, I fear -- I may never have the strength to get up again. It is during these days when all that tethers me to the world is the thin and frail thread of words I weave in panic and desperation, and I pray -- yes, I pray -- by the memory of all who have ever loved me that this thread does not break.
My tongue wants nothing else but the taste of overcoming, but its light has all but fled from my spirit. Breathing comes at ragged and dragging intervals now, and the sound of the passage of air throbs relentlessly in my ears. My lungs strain at the burden. It is during these days when all I think of is it is only a matter of time.
