Little Shots of Madness: Thirty
Something inside cracks. Things start quickening. Building intensely and exponentially; lightning quick. In a flash. Everything is moving at breakneck speeds in my head.
The winter night air outside feels good on my burning skin. It feels like steam is seething off of me. Despite the headphones blaring whatever loud distraction the playlist lands on I can hear myself sucking in and pushing out air. The sound resembles a hacksaw cutting through a steel pipe in short, sharp strokes.
As walk I encounter people. My pace is fast. My legs pumping as I hold myself back from bursting out into a full on sprint like a bat out of hell. Without thinking. I follow the flow of everything around me. Making a complicated path around obstacles rather than disrupting the flow of things. I don’t just walk. I move with my whole body. Twisting my shoulders this way and that to fit the gaps. Constantly unclipping and pulling off and pulling back on my bag as the situation requires.
I don’t understand why, exactly, but the overly complicated approach along with the needlessly intense vigour of my movements seems to satisfy the monkey on my back enough for now to keep me from exploding.
And things have been bad. I have accumulated a lot since the last time I exploded. I don’t even know what that would look like now. I don’t even know where the fuck I am going. I am just letting my body follow familiar paths while I work through whatever the fuck this turns out to be. I consciously choose pathways that have less and less people. I try to think of places where no one would be.
I can feel my mind tearing itself apart at the seams. Not like my mind is slipping. But like it is being drawn and quartered. Torn asunder.
The inevitable flashes of rage wash over me like waves. I can feel them in my chest whenever they crest. Each wave stoking the flames of my already smouldering furnace.
The sweat cascading off of me.
I shut down. Switch off. Opt out.
The weight completely obliterating me.