8

i peel my jacket and backpack of my body. the very air i breathe suffocates me.

the noise of the clock in the living room mocks me.
it feels i've been mentally awake for way too long.

my computer chair holds me. literally, tilted back, metaphorically, as i barely look at vim, typing this.

every paragraph. every vim motion. every word. it feels like i'm scratching the plater off my mind with bare claws.

i copy the previous paragraph tag, as i input the vim motion to cut the content inside. i brace for a little moment,
trying to piece the struggle that suffocates my chest.

i'm scared that it feels like i'm burning my engines out. left to glide on the green dot of my controls
hoping-- prayiing-- that i'll be able to scramble enough power to push through tomorrow.

there is no runway in sight. there's no help visible.

i just have to keep pushing through. pushing hard enough to not crash, yet soft enough to not stall completely.

oh. this is misery.
this is barely surviving.
a strong enough gust of misfortune; or even a significant enough event; would either make me crash.

i hope i'll make it through.