I am always shaking. Arms, fingers, legs, feet, hair, lashes, nerves out of control, fluttering and greedily overthrowing the ones that want a tranquil existence. The other night I was overcome with anxiety, frantically clawing at the bitter air that loves to smother children slowly, unable to breathe and losing all control over the products of my tear ducts, my visual capacity. After thirty.five minutes of extreme panic in one of the world’s most terrifyingly beautiful breakdowns I found myself on the ground staring up at the holes in a once pure ceiling, alive with stories and repeatedly mistaken for insects of the night by a girl who has forgotten what it feels like to be alive. My heart broke today for a blind man and his tattered cane, a thousand times for the beauty he’d never see and his failed at attempts at communication with anybody who’d look his way with pity and confusion. The babble that flowed from within his mouth reached sharply into my chest and begged me to open my eyes and soak in the chaotically helpless nature of my surroundings. Every day is a struggle, my struggle is nothing and maybe he just wants it this way.
