Friday, September 9, 2011
I can feel it here, under my skin. Writhing. Panic, trying to build, making my body an ill fit. It is trying to break through, but hasn't yet. I fight it. I feel isolated and uncomfortable, like something is just WRONG but I can't pin it down. I should channel it into a story, I guess. It isn't quite a tickle, it's just a feeling, crawling along the nerves of my spine like a repressed shudder between my shoulder blades. Phantom wings trapped beneath my skin. It's the same sensation that maggots or larvae give me, but less urgent. I can resist the panicky shudders. Gooseflesh under the muscles of my back. Melancholy. Deep sadness that comes from OUT THERE somewhere. I feel like I've done something wrong, guilt courses through me, but I've done nothing.