Walking to Work

A stone wall runs along the belly of a cemetery near my apartment, bending idly with the road and eventually fading into the underbrush. Patches of shadow sway and slide with the trees and I am walking, watching nothing as cars pass. 

Behind sunglasses. The incline of the hill, the heat of the day. The weight of passing moments.

A sludge of lifetimes spattered around my feet like the wet ash of a burnt photo album.

the weight.

the weight.

I dosed too much before work and I can feel it now.

The greens GREEN and the air CLEAN and the sky SKY.

I work with a horrible person. A small scoped and loud, wicked human. 

I dosed too much before work and I know my afternoon is about to become more than I want.

 

Crest the hill and stop to peer into the "little library", a small red cabinet affixed to a post at the end of a driveway. A cookbook. Poetry books I may grab another day. Some magazines. Microwaveable pasta. A package of mens underwear. There is no more perfect example of anarchy in action than a little library. Humans, for the good of humans. 

I'm nauseous with anxiety and depression and disgust. I imagine we all are, but I know we aren't. The year has not been kind to us, and some have been affected more than others. I don't know where I land on the spectrum, but I don't feel great. I spit into the grass near the sidewalk and continue walking. My mouth is both dry and over salivating and I am dizzy and I can feel my heartbeat.

Breathe.

Breathe.

The old tricks. Count my fingers. Find something blue. Yellow. Green. Red. Breathe.

Walk to work.

Near an intersection I see a man crossing, and he turns toward me. He will pass me, I guess near the third driveway away from me. I'm not always right, but often enough. I dig around in my bag for my mask and enjoy the last moment or two of the air on my face and my mask is on. 

The momentary and mandatorily passing moment of horror passes at the third driveway with the man and I count to thirty and take the mask off again. I haven't been able to process the pandemic. I have to force it out of my head any time it leaks in. I understand it. I see it. But I can't grasp the scope of it. Of the sheer horror of it. I begin to choke and I feel my heart pick up the pace again and oh, look, a cloud that looks like a rose.

The rose. 

The rose.

The air is thick on my skin and the sweat on my forehead. I can taste my breathe. I can taste my teeth. I can taste blood and I worry I'm clenching again. I am. I relax my jaw. Breathe. Breathe.

The corner across from work. Wait for the white lights of the Cross man. White cross and I cross.

I have no feeling toward my job, beyond not wanting to be tripping when I have to deal with the person.

Breathe. Focus. Get water.

Cross into the building. They take my temperature. Check my nametag. Ask for symptoms. All clear.

I walk the sterile hall and slip into the first bathroom. Into a stall. I crash onto a toilet and heave the breath in. Out. In. Out. Choke down a pill. Small. Green. Hydroxyzine. They make me tired and out of focus, but what other choice. Part of the diet. 

Okay.

Get up, head to the sink. Wash my face. Breathe. Breathe.

Out the door, and off to work. Panicking. Tripping. Breathing.