6. Break Away

Thirty minutes of frantic typing. Guilt and anxiety and flying through pages. This morning, the dogs ate half-bowls. Half. I’m sure their stomachs twist like mine, but this damned thing won’t let me go. Won’t let me free to slip on a pair of jeans and run to Tractor Supply for some kibble. I hate myself so much, and I hate this thing so much. This plastic and metal and electricity that sucks me in and bleeds me dry. This place that’s so big, I lose what it means to be human. Here, I’m just a mind. No… not even. I’m just a piece of my mind, stuck in this half-sleep spider web while my body rots. Waiting for the guilt to build so much that bile rises in my throat and springs me from this trap.