Intoxicating, is the only way I’d describe my sick mind as I see her leave the apartment for work. The flood of reoccurring questions I see incoming is absolutely terrifying, sending me in a frenzy as they all hit at once. My arms start to shake, my neck starts to hurt, and this unquenchable thirst to scream and punch something is all I feel as I try to avert my consciousness from any of the worries and questions that drawn me in sorrow and anxiety. Pacing around the apartment, with more and more adrenaline flowing through me, my flight or fight response is slowly overflowing as my movements become more and more sudden. Circles clockwise, circle clockwise, I make circles clockwise. Then, stop. Turn right and with the determination of a bull I start to stroll up, turn quickly around and down the hallway. Up… And down. Up… And then down. Quicker and quicker I move until I find myself exhausted with the watch on my wrist beeping that I’ve done ten thousand steps in just the hour and a half since I woke up. So I stop. Though, maybe I shouldn’t have… As it was a mistake.

I grasp for air but take a whole mouth of panic inducing questions as I swallow feeling my heart beat faster and faster. My heart is pounding in my chest, resonating throughout my body. So, I lay in bed. Eyes wide open. Once more stuck looking at the ceiling as my body is taking a trip on its own and I try to keep my mind in place from drifting towards any other new dangerous places. My ears start to ring a tune I grew accustomed to. Minutes pass, there is no new feeling I’m feeling as I go through this once more as is routine by now. There is no escape. There is nowhere to run. There is nothing else to do. I feel the waves overwhelm me as I hold onto the bed and the mattress thinking of thinking no thoughts. Because no thought is better than any thought right now. Yet, I can’t live without thought. It’s the thing I need the most to work with. And that’s how my panic deepens even further. I can’t hear much, not that I even want to hear anything, so I close my eyes thinking that maybe a quick nap.

Do I even feel anything properly anymore? Or are all my senses turned to eleven? Is this how Spidey’s spider sense feels? A tingle throughout your body? Sometimes it feels strange to know that you are just a brain in a jar of bones, meat and liquids. And yet, even aware of this fact, I sit here and tremble with anxiety. Anxiety, how ridiculous is that? Anxiety doesn’t make sense. It’s irrational. It’s so unbelievable to me. The more you deconstruct these the reality we live in, the more absurd it gets. Due to the fact that my gooey blob in my oval skeleton somehow has electricity in it, I get spooked. Why? Because I can see things with two gelatinous blobs in the same oval skeleton or hear with two tubes that somehow also go into the big tube that you can shove things down on and also breath through. Which are all in the same skeleton part, because of course they are. So then the jellyfish interprets it as something you must fear or run away from. Why? Because. I don’t know. We might be aware of the fact that we’re aware, yet are we truly aware if we can’t go past this whole subconscious thing the gooey electric blob has? I’m afraid of how I might think if I were on drugs? If these are my thought sober.

The weird thing is that I were to tell this to anyone, they wouldn’t understand and then I’d get even more anxious. I mean, how can you not get excited about this sort of stuff? Especially when you think that you think things with almost a literal jellyfish that named itself. And then there are people that don’t have a little voice in their heads like I do when they think. Which is even more mind blowing. Existence itself is an abomination that for now doesn’t make sense. If there is no sense before existence that we know how to explain, then how can there be sense in what we do and have right now? Religions and all that spiritual stuff simply isn’t satisfactory. It feels like giving up responsibility, sense and any need for an answer. And I can’t have that if I’m meant to create a sense for who I ought to be, at least. I don’t know. I’m afraid of being wrong. No… Not wrong. Wrong is the wrong word here. I’m afraid of being a bad person. I want to do good, be a decent person at least. And when there’s nothing to approve what you are doing it’s anxiety inducing. I hate feeling like I can’t explain or express myself, when I do it just fine.

And so I spend my days trying to fall asleep when I can’t, trying to work when I can’t, trying to feel normal, when there is no normal. Then after all is said and done, I feel bad for everything I’ve ever thought of or have done. So you wonder what the fuck, when you feel you are stuck in this pit of hell where the only thing that satisfies you is literally doing nothing of importance. As any responsibility feels like a burden and any work feels like you are disappointing someone or indeed, everyone. What do I want? What do I need? Who am I anymore when you drift away to places you have no places being at? All my drive, my will for success, my dreams seem futile in the face of people who chow down without thinking. I don’t want to think about that anymore, it makes me feel sick to my stomach. Well, at least it’s exhausting to think of these things. I can fall asleep in peace knowing that when I wake up, everything could be slightly better or just worse than it was before.

Sometimes, much like now, I feel like I just can’t care to save my life. Like what am I going to do? Save the world? Change people’s minds? Go and fall face first into a pile of money? Get a call from a publishing house telling me that they’d love to pay me a few hundred thousand to publish a book? Delusions! Delusions! I tell you. Dreams of grandeur without the ability to put in any effort is like trying to take a shit whilst constipated, nothing’s gonna come out of it. You know what, I’m not going to continue the rest of the analogy I had, hah. And so, have passed thirty minutes of me trying to calm myself down from a panic attack, yet instead of taking a nap, I distracted myself with weird thoughts that only make sense to me and me alone, which is sad, cause I’d like to share these with people. But how can I share any of those with people when people don’t even understand sarcasm in text? Yet they all say that they have their second language as sarcasm. The only second language you have, Stacy, is the Starbucks menu and the Sephora catalog. Well, this was unexpected, I say as the phone starts to ring…

Hope you liked this two chapter short story of I Write Sins… Not Tragedies. I know I didn’t post last week, this is why we have this two chapter this Saturday. But I was busy trying to reinstall stuff, refind things that I’ve lost with the new Windows install. That, and losing all my bookmarks from the past three years. And it being a very hectic weekend and week overall. If you liked it and want to support and keep the short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO