I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know where it goes.

I get scared, too. I never stopped. It doesn’t feel good. It, you know, it all feels like little waves of paranoia like hits from a cigarette. Just barely. Like little kisses to a cigar. Like the smoke sting in your eyes. Like that little heart-bump-bump-bump right afterward. I don’t know where it comes from. Hormones, I think. Chemicals flooding into your brain tissue, releases like that pop of air when you crack your knuckles. I cracked them so often a few of them stopped cracking all together. I quit smoking. It still doesn’t feel good. I still get scared. I still swallow whatever fear puffed up all the way to my pharynx. And then it floods back and soaks into my bones. I don’t know where the fear goes after that, after my little heart-bump-bump-bump. It has to go somewhere. I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know where it goes.

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2 responses to “I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know where it goes.

  1. This is so beautiful and kind of reminds me of beat poetry. Cool.

  2. What about the taste of fear? That bitter, metallic flooding of the palate after skidding down a snow-covered expressway or sliding sideways at 50 mph on an ice-covered ramp… That taste lingers for an hour or more, leaving you with that jangled, limp-rag-doll feeling. It feels bad, it tastes worse.

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