And It's Alright

My chest hurts. It's probably nothing. Stress. Anxiety. There is much to be anxious about these days.
I try my usual tricks to help me relax, to calm down just a little.

I venture into the imaginary world that I pay a monthly upkeep to access, but I can't find myself there anymore. There are echoes, traces of who I once was, but I'm not there anymore.

I try to write, to create a world of my own. There is so much to tell and paint, so few words. I write a paragraph, then stop. Try another, then pause and stare at the waiting cursor. I know the story but I don't know how to reach it. I am lost to it. Without me it cannot be told, and I am silent.

I turn to look for friends, companions, acquaintances, but I cannot reach them. I am lost.

I try to look inside myself, but there is nothing. Only emptiness, a riddled past, an ever stretching present and a cloudy future. I try to break away from the selfish pain and the gnawing anxiety but it's as though I am trying to leave this body behind. They are too much a part of me by now.

Finally, I turn to music. It has always been there for me. I can still hear it, still listen, though my attention span is declining in favor of the pain and dread in my rib cage. And I am so tired.

But it still works, it's still a lifeline out of this place and, for a short time, out of this existence.

I listen and remember I am still alive, I still hunger, I still dream.

I know it's not going to be alright, but for a few minutes I can believe.

"And It's Alright" by Peter Broderick (from Home)