My mind cycles up.
Then down.
Then up again.
Like an elevator in a building
where nobody knows what floor they want,
and all the buttons are lit.
There is no lobby.
There is no penthouse.
There is only the humming, the cycling
So it goes.
I am not happy.
That much seems clear.
But I am not buried either,
it's rather rude, in its own way.
Depression leaves the door open
just enough for the draft to get in.
Anxiety, meanwhile,
has taken up residence in my nervous system.
It pays no rent.
It has bad manners.
It is a horrible guest.
It turns every sound yellow
and every silence into a siren.
My body keeps asking,
“What’s going to happen?”
My mind answers,
“What isn’t?”
Such a fine meeting.
No minutes taken.
No chairperson.
Everyone shouting.
My teeth grind constantly
like tiny factory workers
trying to produce a useful thought.
They make iron instead.
Blood-flavoured.
Penny-coloured.
They're very efficient.
The back of my skull pounds
like someone knocking from inside
who forgot why they came.
They want out.
I can't sit still.
I don't want to move.
This is a joke, apparently.
The engine revs.
The wheels are missing.
The driver is ashamed of the car.
Self-loathing arrives in a suit jacket
wearing my face
and carrying a clipboard.
It brought notes.
It says I am lazy.
It says I am tired.
It says I am too much.
It says I am not enough.
It says all of this
with the confidence of a man
who has never once built a house
but has many opinions about the framing.
And I believe it.
Do I really?
Perhaps not.
Back and forth.
Like tides in.
Tides out.
A black ocean in a bathtub.
I need to slow down,
but I am behind.
I need to rest,
but rest looks suspiciously like failure
when viewed under the flickering lights
of a brain that never closes.
A neon sign.
Even peace feels like a task
I have failed to complete.
There are colours in the room
making noises.
There are thoughts with sharp elbows.
There is a blue buzzing behind my eyes.
There is a red ache at the base of my head.
There is a white-hot nothing
pacing in circles.
And still, somehow,
I make coffee.
I answer messages.
I find my keys.
Mostly.
This is the ridiculous mercy of being alive.
The world does not stop.
So I breathe.
Badly, perhaps.
But I breathe.
In.
Out.
Up.
Down.
The machine coughs.
The neon flickers.
The meeting adjourns... for three seconds.
And in those three seconds,
I am not fixed.
I am not saved.
I simply ...am.
Which is annoying.
Which is something.
So it goes.
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