It is somehow ironic that what devastates me the most is my own mind.
Here, in this place of adrenaline, shortness of breath, and a terrible self-awareness, I find the truth in just how alone I can feel, even when I am in the midst of comfort. I render myself unable to sleep, unable to breathe, unable to feel anything but suffering. I feel like these are the vestiges of my individuality, struggling to remind me of my bodily constraints. You can’t escape yourself, I seem to tell myself, my throat and veins constricting, my skin growing cold to the touch. You can’t escape your fear, your self-awareness, your thoughts. I can’t control my self.
Is this what we do when we are too comfortable, with too much idle time? Do we torture ourselves? Do we toss and turn in our beds even when we are exhausted, unable to stop thinking? Are we trying to teach ourselves what suffering is all about? Punishing ourselves for our nation’s affluency, for our luck of the draw, for the lethargy of our culture?
This place within myself is a warzone.