Anxiety swirls within my bones and fills my fingertips with poison
And my feet with a beating, a bleating,
A wanting something to quell the pulse,
To still the beat that brings the restless sense
Of darts rushing towards me, through me, in me.
And I am sure one of those darts will pierce my heart.
I tap my foot and my voice shakes.
But to be manic is to be fully alive; to feel each pulse
Coursing through my veins and want to feed from it
Want to move, fly, smile, cry for joy.
Work and mere thought becomes the simplest of tasks.
You can do anything. You are a king, a president, the master of your
Universe and the stars line up to praise you when you are around.
You stop the dart with your eyes, catch it in mid-air, and send it back to where it came.
You make a bull’s-eye.
Then comes the crash. Depression takes the wind out of you
like an embalmer removing all of your fluid. You can’t move.
Your limbs are weighed down by the very air you breathe.
Everything hurts – even the sheets from the bed that you lie beneath.
It seems to be the end of everything – your life, your work, your happiness.
You focus on breathing and watch the walls. Time has come to a standstill.
You would break the damn dart in two if only you had the energy.
You cry because the dart reaches you and you don’t feel a thing.