Running

I wake up every day gasping,

Abruptly, 

I am running out of time

The words snake throughout my being,

Wrapping loosely around my lungs,

Causing a weight in my chest,

The quickening of my breath,

The thud, thud, thud, thud of my heartbeat,

Falling into pace with my racing thoughts.

A version of fear sits at the end of my bed,

Playing softly with the linen that’s started to unravel at the corners of my duvet,

And poses the question,

“So, what next?”

His tone insinuating the answer should be clear, 

It should come easily,

Why isn’t it all figured out in my first few seconds of consciousness?

And despite how hard I try to squeeze my eyes shut,

To turn back the moment,

To force his expulsion,

When it comes to the matter of stopping time,

Even my greatest efforts prove futile.

And I feel crushed,

By my yearning for the past,

Two seconds and two years ago alike.

Both will never exist as they were again,

Did I appreciate them when I had them?

And isn’t it ironic that the very act of questioning my gratitude in retrospect robs me of my appreciation for the present?

And between the two former questions, of future and past, 

I’m left with a vacancy,

A hole where the contemporary should exist.

Being pulled violently between grieving and uncertainty,

My muscles in a constant state of tension,

Anticipating the jolt.

Lacking the capacity to feel outside the crushing dualities,

My thoughts whiplashed throughout my mind,

And so it goes,

And goes,

And goes.