Small snippet of today's writing

Then I’m hit with this brick barrier of anxiety. It walls me off from everyone and everything. It leaves me with a tiny sip of air and I’m gasping to get it into my lungs. But from my vantage point, my fishbowl, I can see. I can see everything:

 

The wood stove, muttering, burning.

 

The stains on the carpet.

 

The trees fading fast into the night.

Still, they don’t notice. I don’t know how they don’t, but they don’t. Okay, I do know. They’re wrapped in some sort of conversation, the kind that you just know leads to more.

 

What the fuck have I set into motion?

 

Their voices come to me as if through glass, muttered and molded. Weirdly, I can smell her. It’s a scent I associate with earth, with good clean dirt. It’s something base and primitive, knowing in its way. It’s a scent that nods at you, crooks a finger, says come here.