It’s a kind of suffocation that can’t be compared to drowning and the sort of claustrophobia that isn’t like having the walls close in. This . . . feeling can’t seem to be described, only felt.
A pressure on the mind and chest with an aim to drive you mad, not kill. It distorts the thoughts and makes you rethink everything you had once believed to be a solid affirmation.
And no one can seem to understand, leading you to think that maybe something is wrong with you. So it’s also a lonely hopelessness. Unless! Unless they too have the need, the impulse, the yearning–as indescribable as it is–to just go. To leave. To . . . escape.
It’s a restlessness from deep within. You’re trapped and dying. Your skin crawls because you’re static. It feels like everything yet it’s nothing. Nothing tangible–nothingness. A void with too much clutter. It can bring you to tears. It will drive you insane if left unsated. There is no explanation for it’s cause and you’re most likely a victim of this epidemic already.
. . . Maybe, just maybe this feeling is a haunting of identity crisis . . . and the uppercut of your purpose in the world. It’s overwhelming and absolute terror. Questioning you. When I die, what am I leaving behind? How will others remember me? Is it how I want them to remember me? Was I who I wanted to be?
If you have this, just know that NOTHING is wrong. You are NOT alone. That itch, those shackles that keep you in the birdcage, they will evaporate. It is the pursuit of finding you–of creating who and what you want to be. What is now–WHO is now is insufficient, is not you. Those big dreams, those wishes at 11:11–the ones on shooting stars, dandelions, and eyelashes, the hopes of being happy with your future: you CANNOT let those go. To massacre your past is to exist without oneness.