Each passing hour breaks my heart. I have developed such anxiety around time, over the years, every shift in my day, the time to leave for work or school, the time to get ready for bed, makes my chest tight and heavy with dread, as though the deadline is an axe, my head underneath the pendulum of end. I am starting to see that these little duties and responsibilities, the scheduling of these amid my freedom, they are not burdens necessarily, that I am not truly losing time because I have never owned time, never had time. It is not mine to be stolen. I am the one using it, in debt to it, owing it my best. Time is a test in itself. I cannot breath. I want the kitchen to fill with water, to sink into a pool of comfort, I want ease from this hand gripping my viscera. What is this call to ignore life and lay in bed? What am I yearning for? Rest? Soul rest. Comfort. Love. What is this? How do I ease this? The desire to hide. How is it that one person can have an infinite supply of fear? I suppose the flip side is infinite courage.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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