We sit in this room together. He is comfortable. I am shaking.
The room is warm, I know it is warm, but I don’t feel it.
He is happy here.
It doesn’t matter that I am over here, not five feet from him, having a panic attack.
He doesn’t notice.
This is the best part of his day.
Every part of his day is the best.
I wish that I could feel like that.
I leave the room for a moment. He barely looks up.
He seems to have no concerns at all.
Perhaps I should feel that way, too – after all, I have nowhere to go, no job to speak of, no schedule to plan.
I should be content to just be here; to just be.
But I am not. I want to be. I try to be. But I am not.
I am anxious. Terrified. Shaking. Chilled in a warm room. Struggling to focus. Struggling to overcome. Struggling…
And he sleeps. Contented, peaceful, happy.
If only I were him. I cannot imagine what that would feel like. My imagination does not carry me that far.
Maybe I should join him. Sit beside him. Try to feel what he feels.
But I can’t.
I am too anxious.
