Breathing to re-anchor myself. To make myself more human and less void. Breathe in, breathe out.
I need less aether in this skin. My skin.
Some days it takes longer than others. A disruption to my routine will certainly cause the human-ness to disappate, the myriad confusions of the universe rush in instead.
This openness to the void is usually not much of an issue. Not too big, not too bothersome. But if I have to get up at 4am to check into an early flight, or if I get wrapped up in excitement at a party, or playing a video game and stay awake to late then it rears up.
Any day I forget to eat.
If I get sick with a fever.
If I run into an ex unexpectedly.
There are warning signs: a slight nausea where my stomach should be, a prickling in my fingers, or a tingling up the forearms. The feeling that something in my spine is out of place and wants a good crack. My eyes dry out, my throat scratches, the corners of my mouth crack painfully.
When these things happen, even one of them, I get irritable.
It’s best not to speak to me.
This is for your own good, you understand. Anything that sets me off in this state could trigger… well. I don’t exactly know what it triggers. I don’t know what would happen. I’ve always been able to control it.
Breathe in, slow, controlled.
Even the time I woke up halfway through the process. My heart fluttering somewhere around my left ear and my being feeling such affinity to the infinity. The void filling me and threatening to do something worse, something more…
Breathe out, longer than I breathed in for. Control the rate of expulsion.
If I couldn’t breathe my body back into the completeness who knows what might happen. But something in me continues to chase the void away. To return to the anchor of the flesh and breathe. In and out.
This is a short piece I found in an old notebook from 2015. I rather liked it, so I updated it and now you get to enjoy the existential horror of anxiety. You’re welcome.