Inflated Lungs, Inflated Problems

Sometimes I get to panicking, in a way far more specific than I ever imagined panicking to occur in my more level-headed days. You hear about “panic attacks”, and I always thought this referred to an unfocused, chaotic sort of panic, like, “I’m freaking out and I don’t know why” kind of thing. But for me it takes more tangible form. “My breathing is weird,” I think. “Perhaps I’m having heart failure,” I advance. “Perhaps if I inhale giant, controlled gulps of air I can conquer cardiac arrest, and hey, that’s not so hard so why didn’t John Hughes, Michael Jackson, or any of the other millions upon millions of people who’ve died of cardiac arrest think of that?” I do this and it does nothing but to make my lungs hurt because I’m not breathing naturally, I’m breathing consciously. Obsessively.

I arose from bed this morning at the crack of one p.m., body aching with the atrophy that accompanies too much conscious breathing, which accompanies too much conscious living. Some things you’ve got to ignore and let take their course naturally. Breathing’s one of them.

In the last month or so, I’ve (re)discovered the wasteful futility of over-thinking decisions. The truth will reveal itself when you’re out picking apples and dancing jigs, not when you’re hunched over in the corner of your darkened den, gritting your teeth and gripping a magnifying glass. It’s true. I think.

Your brain, your problems, will inflate like badgered lungs, to the point of nullifying the initial purpose of rational thought. Next time a friend says “How you doing?” do yourself a favor ad answer “Hey not bad got any Kudos bars?” and be done with it. These things are not to be brooded upon.

They still make Kudos bars? Back in the day, that was my bar.

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