Pressure

The four familiar walls are suffocating. 

Everyday, they constricts inch by inch.

On low days, air pulls from my lungs 

On the best of days, I remember how trapped I am. 

Slowly, I collapse into a single room.

No windows and doors let in outside warmth. 

Soon, all the light will leave my cage.

Empty space consumes me.

My eyes and mind adjust to the absence of

joy,

thought,

momentum,

spirit, 

life—  

All that exists is nothingness and me.

I relent into the infinite void. 

I am floating, lost in dark, expansive static. 

In this space, I cannot find my bearings.

No landmarks allow a sense of time or connection. 

I am without. 

I am frozen in place, and devoured whole by heavy ink.

Pressure folds me inward. 

Retreating inside my mind, I cower in unforgiving oppression. 

No breath comes.  

No thoughts surface.

I feel

nothing.

Do I move?

Toward an imperceivable pin light of hope

faint enough to cast doubt at its very existence. 

And yet, I find hope filling my lungs.

I inflate until,

at last, 

I exhale. 

Casting myself toward the possibility of light.

However small,

defiant,

and pushing

for a chance to find myself again.

Photo by Paul Volkmer on Unsplash

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