THE ART OF LAYING DOWN, EXISTENTIALLY
The other night, I laid down in the middle of the driveway,
Because the middle was the highest point,
And everywhere else was wet.
I laid in the middle of the driveway,
And the blood in my veins slowly crept to my head,
Because I was angled upside-down.
While I laid there,
I stuck my legs up,
And pretended I could run through the sky.
While I was running, running, running,
The moon peered around a cloud,
To say hello.
“It’s been a while,” said the moon.
“Indeed it has,” I replied.
“So, what are you running from?” the moon asked.
What am I running from, I thought.
I kept running, from star to star, and the blood in my veins slowly crept to my head, as I laid in the middle of the driveway.
I didn’t respond.
The moon was swept back into silence,
But my thoughts spread like wildfire.
What am I running from?
Emptiness.
Responsibilities.
Feeling sad.
Feeling.
Existing in the world as myself.
Not knowing enough.
Knowing too much.
Exhaustion.
I stopped running.
I stopped running, and I stared up, as the blood in my veins slowly crept to my head, and I kept my eyes open as long as I could.
I watched as the sky came closer and closer and closer and closer until it was so close that it kissed my corneas.
And the sky was all I could see.
And all I wanted to do was cry, but I was too tired.
So I let the weight of my anxiety drag me back to earth.
I stood up.
All the blood in my veins, which had been slowly creeping to my head all this time, rushed back to the rest of my body.
My head hurt.
But I was awake, for the first time in years.
I experienced all my senses, right then and there.
And then, it was over.