Something building up, there it is. In the corner of the room, staring through my lens, fogging the view. Can't place the feeling, covered by a vague and familiar residue. Like holding bags for someone who isn't coming back. I stare at the wall, nothing has room to grow, walls are closer now.
Not wanting to do anything in particular or much at all. So I don't, not running away, not distracting, but letting the wave come. It too will pass, if I let it. The wall is crumbling. I know it's foundation is built on puddy, on thoughts of thoughts and not cement, not the real stuff. Being with it is like sitting at the top of a slide that winds underneath and all about. I know that once I start the movement, I can let go and allow natural force to guide me back some intricate path. There it is, finally realising grip for a few moments. For no reason, bare. Nothing was in the corner, just a mirror from some place long passed. There was room to stop, and I am thankful. Afterwards, a feeling of relief. A feeling of having done something that was needed; blowing your nose. I can breathe again.
