Breath

You are gasping for breath, praying to whatever is out there watching over you that this is not your last breath. You fight to get that gulp of cool air into your lungs in a desperate bid to stay alive just a little bit longer, just long enough to take another breath. The harsh sounds of air scraping over your throat as it is drawn into your screaming lungs is a beautiful symphony to your oxygen starved brain. You are afraid to exhale your precious air because what if you can't get it back? What if that one breath is all the the universe allotted you? What if when you released those used up molecules, there are none to replace them as they scatter out of your reach?



But your lungs starts to burn as you can't hold back any longer as black starts to edge your vision and so you breathe out only to hurried suck it back in as your natural instinct craves more of that sweet nectar that provides life. It's as painful as the previous but you are forced to comply with your body's needs to drink deep if only for the torture of another breath. It's a fight to make your lungs expand and collapse in a natural rhythm despite the chorus of voices telling you to
breathe,
damnit,
breathe.

Your mind screams at you with pain and relief and you can't do anything but focus on the transfer of air from outside your body to the inside. You try not to count them as you don't know if you are counting up, adding just another breath to the multitude that have already passed your lips, or if you are counting down until that very last one where the next one won't fill your chest with life and everything actually stops. You can't think in numbers, you can't think in time, you can't think about your breath, you just can't think. If you think you are scared. You whisper prayers and promises with your limited supply of air that this gasp won't be your last but your get no promises in return and you are left with the same uncertainty that keeps you paralyzed and unable to
just
breathe.

Such a simple nearly automatic action is now a matter of life and death with the decision to take in the next breath of air taunting you, mocking you, terrifying you. You want to rely on your instincts but you've over thought the problem until you are no longer sure what the question is. You wish for someone to take the choice out of your hands, you wish for blissful unconsciousness where you won't be held responsible for what happens next. Why were you put in charge in the first place? But you are terrified of the unknown that will swamp you as soon as your let go of the little shreds of control that you clutch and hold onto with tooth and nail. Now only if that control could be leveraged towards making sure there is constant fresh air in your lungs to transfer fresh oxygen to your blood to feed your body and mind. But that little bit seems like a giant burden, a herculean task that you don't think you will ever summit again. Did you perfect before? If so then why have those skills abandoned you when you need them most to leave you gasping for the substance you know is
just
right
there.

Your sobs make you choke, your throat threatens to close up and sabotage the whole procedure, making what little progress you've made so far worthless and pointless and is it really worth the fight in the first place? Conflicting thoughts like this made it harder than it should be to breathe, to perform the simple process of drawing air in long enough to let it soak into your body before releasing it. Cycle, repeat. You've done it a hundred thousand times before. And the next cycle will just be the same but you have to think about all of the individual mechanics behind it for each breath you draw in, each breath you hold, each breath you exhale to draw in another. As long as there is another, right?

You feel the fear creep back over your mind from wherever it was temporarily beaten back to. Damn it, damn it. It's a constant battle with that fear that there won't be another breath. You know the logic behind it, that the air around you is plentiful, that the other people around you are breathing, that your lungs aren't going to suddenly give out on you, that you can breath again and again, but logic doesn't hold up well to the panic and terror that wells up inside you to make you choke on nothing. The choking only feeds the fire that burns at your lungs and torches your mind, leaving burnt scars that remind you over and over that you are scared. You are scared to stop breathing. You are scared to keep breathing.