Volcano

The inside of me is boiling. I feel like everything is trying to get out. It’s like there are bugs inside of me, and their numbers are growing, and pushing at my skin, and at my ribs and at my skull. I feel like something inside of me is going to blow, and that I’m not going to like the after effects. I feel like everything that I do is a mistake, and I am wondering where and when that started. I think that’s the source of this feeling, my nagging insistence that I have always made the wrong choice. I shouldn’t have said what I did, or did what I did, or chose the way I did. I can’t think of a time when I didn’t feel this way, but I also can’t remember anything very well. I find the strength of this feeling to be overwhleming. It’s a great rolling wave sucking me under and taking my breath away. The only time I don’t feel it anymore is when I am at work, and when I am driving my car. I’ve spent hours exploring the countryside, and still this feeling won’t go away.

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