Picture a waffle cone filled with vanilla ice cream suspended over blacktop on a hot summer day. The way the cream melts and drips, drips out the bottom drop by drop by drop and plunges in a freefall action similar to the way your stomach drops up to your throat as a roller coaster slips over its apex is how I sometimes feel. This is Mondays, this is Fridays, this is finals... this is Hell. This is a lifetime of pressure built up and delivered intravenously... drip, drip.
I can't get away, I can't escape. My tension has filled up my mindscape.
I seek relief from worries so risen. My panic has drowned out my vision.
I surrender to sleep often calling. It saves me from life-scenes appalling.
I choke and I gasp like a deep water diver with lungs begging for air and see spots dance in front of my eyes in a choreographed number and watch the room fade to black and listen to the white noise in an empty room in the tune of c-sharp and I know I'm not sick and I know something's not right
and
I scream.