Smell the air.

What else. There isn't anything else. A few days ago a friend died. A few days ago I worried about needles and a friend. I can't really express much, or say much, it doesn't feel like much, it feels compressed, like it's all inside me, squeezing me tight and at some point the pressure will be too much. Until then, it's under control. Lock and key, all that and all those words. The day to day worry, sometimes it's not there. Sometimes it's right in my face. Sometimes I hear stories of someone telling me their close scrape of avoiding an ER visit; of a botched job banging a new substance, their face turning blue, inside of their throat swelling, anaphylaxis to the dot. Lately I hear these things from a detached point of view, my head really isn't here anymore, my emotions are still around, hurting, locked up. Lock and key, all those emotions and words. Or, my resolve and facade are non-existent, and the shock of a blatant hurtful suicide attempt (hang yourself in the front door for your wife and son to see -- lovely, you asshole) sets my mind spinning, the loose ball bearings that I was resting on, my platform of stability, have been knocked away, and I'm left gasping for breath on the floor. I'm not even standing anymore. Just fill me with whatever is left and I'll stand up, no thanks, I don't need your hand. Those aren't tears, it's just rain, like the excuses we all give each other. I'm okay, whenever someone asks, because really I'm okay. I'm not in the ER, I'm not trying to kill myself, I'm not swallowing bottles of pills to not feel the pain that I endure myself and to not feel the pain that others feel. The only thing wrong with me is I'm crying. I'm beginning to think that crying is the only thing right with me. So tonight, I will cry more, and let some tears fall down my face, because it's dry and it's time this weathered land had a storm. I feel a storm coming each day, I just hope it's one of those I can survive.

In a few days, tomorrow perhaps, there will be a storm. A storm of worry and indecision, frustration and fear. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety. P A N I C. I wonder what has gone through her mind while gone. I wonder if she missed me. I wonder if I wonder too much. Those that wonder dream too much, or is it, those that wonder too much never get their dreams because they have so many? And those that do not wonder, do not dream, get exactly what they want? Why am I getting into dreams at this point or stage, when there's nothing more than mutual, what? Mutual mutualness? Mutual like and concern and worry. Endearing, K. brings tears to my eyes at some of the most simple of phrases, or the most simple worries that I can brush away with the back of my hand, soft and gentle, but firm, telling her it will be okay, and there is no reason to worry about that with me. And vice versa, we play the same game, but she gives me warm tight hugs instead, when I have a worry and it goes away. Hugs facilitate the communication, physical sensation convey through channels what vocalization cannot, what writing cannot. I miss her and want to hold her.