doubtful_salmon: Doorman at the Door (with Diamonds)

I feel anxious tonight, like my heart is about to burst out of my chest and rain blood on my computer screen, my walls, my bed, my immaculate white shirt. My toe has tapped the ground more times in this last hour than it has hit the ground in footsteps in this last year. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. It's so easy to spell "tap," I'd wink at a patient if I was giving a breast exam. It is 2:50, and I am uncaffeinated, but I feel alive. Of course I've never felt dead at 2:50. I'm only awake to write the paper that's due tomorrow; I have to leave for school in five hours but I haven't even written the first word of the essay. I've spent the last seven hours thinking about it, talking about it, living it, breathing it; it's an amazing how an essay you felt so passive about suddenly becomes a goal, an obstacle, some personal allegory for the meaning of life itself; presque vu, I feel like my heart and my mind are going so past theit tolerance threshold, trying to grasp for something that doesn't exist, watching the dream that made sense slip through my fingers until it doesn't, until it becomes a non-sequitur, until it becomes surreal, until the day becomes surreal, and the night afterward, surreality in perpetuity and never grasping the meaning and the world of the dream, that higher learning that is like a milky prophecy glistening on the tips of your fingers but never breaking where you can hear it.