Sometimes I Really Say To Myself, I Could Post My Vision, And Let The World Run With It. Let It Flourish—

sometimes i really say to myself, i could post my vision, and let the world run with it. let it flourish— or crash and burn…whichever way fate took it, but i always seem to circle back to simply wanting to perfect it.

but alas, here i am throwing a snippet of my metaphorical baby out of the nest:

Dread.

There’s nothing like the suffocating sensation of utter terror that occupies all available space in the body. It morphs into indiscernible shapes like a ghost, almost as if to perfectly mold into her shape—depriving it of the very oxygen it needs to function. A heavy coldness claws through the center of the chest and up through the throat with a vengeance. The crippling temperature sends rattles to her bones and casts ice to melt into the fire of her blood. It renders her skin trembling to the touch, where fields of goosebumps cover her as a last line of defense against the invisible force.

It burns.

The panic only grows when every inhale is faltered by the crushing pressure against her ribcage, like a snake curling around her frame, squeezing her chest with an indescribable tightness. Every breath, whether delivered in a greedy heave or pathetic and shallow gasp, intensifies the feeling of hollowness within her. The chilling oxygen is not comparable with the sensation of the heart itself throbbing unnaturally against her ribcage. Ghost-like fingers pierce into the muscle, and send constricted pumps of blood to race fervently from it. The blood flows in her veins with heat only known to hell itself, a black—unfathomable degree of flame that feels almost freezing to the touch.

It burns.

There’s nothing like the unshakable tremble that accompanies it. Muscles and nerves twitching almost against her will, as they shift constantly between the desire to fight or flight. The movement isn’t nearly as bad as the shame that fills her mind. It easily drowns out any other emotion, and for a brief moment—

Hitomi wishes she could forget it—forget the way the dread pours into her. The way the dread causes everything else to dull into meaningless static.

If only the dread came with a warning or a precursor of sorts. Maybe, just maybe then, would she be more prepared to face it.

Until then, she would allow it to consume her—praying that one day it would just take her out of her misery instead.