I can't breathe in the moment. I'm so afraid that I won't have enough air to last me until the next second. It terrifies me. I breathe shallowly, I don't allow my chest to expand and rise with the fullness of my breath. I'm not allowed to, I mustn't, I oughtn't gasp. There must be no falters in my respiration.
There are times when I stop breathing altogether; and I am so caught up in the torrent of terror that I cease taking in air. I don't deserve it. Not even a basic material need; a life-or-death requirement. But I can't stop myself from it: a sharp intake and I am back to breathing again.
I put my hand on my chest in the middle of the night and wait to see if I am alive.
1 comment:
I am completely taken with this image of holding one's breath in the night - thinking you don't deserve the air you will use up. Such a fragile image. So full of despair. And yet, I think one that so many of us can relate to even if we can't admit it. Why do we deserve any of this? What have we done, other than be lucky?
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