Panic

HurricaneThere’s a room in my head and I’m trapped inside it. It’s dark, and there is a hurricane inside with me. I stand in the center. I’m caught in the middle of a whirling flurry of millions of tiny bits of paper. Each one of these fragments has words written on it. Answers. Some piece of knowledge that can help me leave the room, or to calm the hurricane.

But I can neither see the notes, nor catch them out of the air. They’re just outside my grasp. The roaring sound completely fills my ears, my mind, drowns my voice. The voice of reason, of decency, of hope, is so, so far away.

I’m not alone. In the middle of it all, crouched down, is a little boy, carefully drawing on a giant piece of paper. He is so focused, so diligently concentrated, he doesn’t see me. He hasn’t seen anyone for a long time. He’s leaning over and on the paper, he’s inscribing, with precise detail, the plans for a fortress. He loves drawing fortresses.

Something tells me I should reach out to him, to give him a hug, to say something, but I’m unable to.

What would I say to him if I could? That it’s all going to be okay? Because it isn’t. There is no help coming. You’re on your own. What you’ll try to do to help yourself will ultimately crucify you. Your attempts to survive will craft the rod that lashes your back in the years to come. I haven’t the heart to tell him the truth of it.

Hunker down, I might say. Batten down the hatches. Storm’s coming. Big one. Lasts forever.


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