A harrowing account of a nocturnal panic assault
From dreamless slumber, a change will get flipped.
Consciousness.
Readability.
Sentience.
No jolt or startle. Eyes fastened shut but thoughts huge open.
A cleaning breath. A shift. A settle. An everlasting seek for the chilly aspect of the pillow.
A looming consciousness. A lurking. A lingering. A crushing sense of dread.
Diagnostic?
One thing’s caustic.
I’m trapped up in my head.
Assume joyful ideas.
Pleased ideas.
Pleased ideas.
Pleased ideas.
You’re not ok.
You’re not sensible sufficient.
You’re not sturdy sufficient.
You’re not sufficient sufficient.
An overactive thoughts is mine. A lonely boy from a lonely world. Imaginary pals in conjured conversations, misplaced on dreamt up misadventures someplace on the market within the void. Entombed in solitude and sometimes misplaced in pages. Hardy Boys, Boys’ Life, Time/Life, Nat Geo. Encyclopedias Britannica and Americana, rummaged, borrowed…
