What It's Like

Something is rising up, a tide of sick that never crests at the throat, never crosses the tongue, is never allowed out.

It swells and swells, a gorge that threatens but refuses to be purged. It lifts heavy chains, anxiety, agita, palpitations, dread, and settles them none-too-delicately around the neck.

Breathing becomes hard. All is gasping.

Eyes sting, water, well, run, these are tears, tears that only serve to compound the inability to breathe.

Hands flex, clench, grasp, reach, struggling to lift this feeling.

Legs move, as though ready to run, to flee. Have to get away.

From what?

What is this horror that has come up from out of nowhere? What is this terror that sits in the belly, a cold fist that slickly squeezes the guts, churns and twists until all thought of contentment is driven off, replaced by an inability to feel either safe or at the very least prepared for the nameless shadow that is coming.

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