Graditude

It's an urgency that seems to make your platelets and vessels itch, as if your blood's scratching at your veins to rid itself of the waste of a body through which it flows. It's the hurried heart that, momentarily, seems it could cannon your organs through your protruding torso. It's the needles in your brain that crocheted their way up your spinal column on their way to driving you from sane. And it's the way your toes curl in your shoes at the sight of something unfortunate and uncomfortable, as if to make you immobile and unharmed, as if to hold on for dear life.

It is, in fucking fact, holding on for dear life. It's the way you white-nuckle the steering wheel of life. It's the way you watch the clock as if within the next few minutes the world might just slip off its orbit to plummet in a ball of fire somewhere southern in the universe. It's the ridiculously imperative need to make a move, as if merely the act alone of being stagnant and adynamic is enough to make you implode or explode, depending on your vice. And it's how your sheets become braids from the violence in your sleep.

There comes a point in every person's life when you reach it. The push and the pull of the world's gravity makes it seem somewhat practical that the earth could open itself for an instant, forcing your descent into the bottom most part of the blackest nowhere. It's then and only there, though feeble and forfeited, one can understand strength. It's then and only there, that you realize this, in fucking fact, is it.