Weakday

Sightly unfocused. The cranium is a bit tight and the skin a few numbers too small. Thoughts and feelings can't get room, there's no order at all. Heat is pressing against the epidermis until panic twists and turns beneath the surface.

There's too little space, it's too stuffy. Too much routine.

The weekdays are rocks weighing down and making the mood dull. Want to sharpen the thoughts on something exciting, fill the days with something worth writing about.

Or not have the time to write at all.

It's too warm.

The ribcage seems to clutch the lungs too tightly, the muscles are coils, steam dances across the skin.

It's far too warm in here. Far too. Far too everything. Far too close to every wall, far too easy to touch the ceiling with shaky fingertips, far too impossible to reach the universe tucked away in endlessness outside the steal bars of the mind.

Hope it all gets better soon.