On a physical level.
I’m half a Xanax in; A full pain-pill down: my hip is out of place and my sciatic is pinched.
On a social level.
I’m dealing with a minuscule circle: circling the minds of writers; interacting with little intellectual stimulation, in a small Kansas town.
On a mental level.
I’m stuck in the realm of classic literature: he speaks as if I’m Ophelia but is as prideful as Mr. Darcy; and I will never experience Walden, and can never “live deliberately”.
On a political level.
I’m in panic mode(literally), just thinking about the sad, despondent citizens of my country. As Trump and Sarah Huckabee-Sanders pollute us with alternative facts.
Just like that–a switch gets flipped! That half of Xanax won’t do! I take the other half: the last half. But fast-acting is never fast enough… When both arms are burdened with the weight of impoverished masses, yearning only to live; sharp pains plotting the demise of my extremities, always falling on deaf ears.
I fumble about irrationally, pressing my fingers through my hair–supporting my neck, with those same burdened arms, as it fails to support my head–the frames of my glasses press pains into my skull, like a vice on rational thinking.
But it only takes fifteen minutes, to get back to numb.
Photo Credit: Chill Pill by ink-imp on Deviant Art.