At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
For me, standing outside and waiting for a bus to come, for a cab, for someone, for anything alone IS waiting for a hand from behind to shut my mouth and drug me to the unknown. That's how it is anytime and anywhere. Understand my anxiety. The fear you see in my eyes, the one you consider silly is genuine.
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