My mind is racing. If there were brain-police, they would pull me over for speeding. On top of that, my chest feels cold and sore inside. Heavy. It feels pointless to take in my next breath. I know that this will pass, but it doesn't get me out of the current, pulling me closer to the center. Maybe my fighting it is the cause for suffering.

It's so weird: a few hours ago, I was just fine. I was better than fine, I was hard. I was swimming in an oasis of memories of intimate encounters in relationships that have long since died and rotten, so to speak. In a way, that makes me a necrophiliac, I guess.

I was just happy. Blissful. Froh. Disregarding any kind of sour patches in my past -- the cheaters, the break ups, the awkward conversations -- it was good. I remembered the curves my hands had graced, and how pleasing it was to me. I thought about what seams I have yet to compromise.

Why I let myself dwell in the past and fantasies of the future, I do not know. It just feels right sometimes. It feels as if it will benefit me in some way. My intentions are unclear to me, at least on the surface (or at least that's what I'll tell you).

Even now, though, I feel the oppressive wool pulling off from my eyes.