Pop

Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.
Like a balloon in my hands, ready to burst. I close my eyes, intense anxiety ripping apart my chest, bracing for impact.
A tight, stinging pain sprouts in the bridge of my nose. Anxiety and tension are on the loose in my mind, wreaking havoc, causing me distress. The words I wanted to say threatened to burst out of me, an explosion and convulsion in the making. I held my breath, turning red, trying to hold them in.
This afternoon I buried myself in a book to escape.
A book is a wonderful place to hide from myself.
Birds are beauty and effortless in flight. I am now on a craggy, sandy island, far away, watching the albatross fly. The bus windows are open, and the breeze is not utah breeze, it is ocean breeze. It's as if my eyes are closed to the real world, and I do not exist.
I imagine myself as a field biologist, sloppy ponytail and loose clothes. My skin is dried by the salt and tanned by the sun and I am crouched in the sand, watching something. In my own universe.
This is where I wish I was. The weathered field biologist.
Reality has this habit of crashing in.
And when I say crashing, I mean crashing. Shrapnel came at me, and my arms shielded my face as the world came crashing down, crushing the life out of me.
It was good while it lasted, and I begged my mind to give me a moment of peace.
No response.