Boiling Point

It’s not only on my stove that things boil. It also gets steamy in my mind. Restive in my heart, sizzling in my vein. It’s a familiar cycle. Right there, Satan’s racings leave a dusty trail that makes it difficult to see the good in life. The evil rises in sharp detail; the good lies distant and faded.
Oily sweat moisturizes the skin as the mechanism of thought ramps up my internal temperature.
My head becomes as unfeeling as a brick as it is subjected to intense introspection while it mercilessly goes on a mile long search for the reason for the upset of the delicate harmony and balance of my emotions.
Faces float before it as it looks for an outlet: a name to pin the blame. It is already suffering so it couldn’t be punished any further or implicated of any guilt. It is spared.

A therapy is badly needed: something ordered, logical, soothing, dreamy, and soft. The hand extends to the drawers, the fingers rummaging, seeking for that which will quiet the storm: Something as calming as the words of Jesus the Christ when he spoke to the troubled Sea of Galilee.
Maybe the stomach is empty and needs filling. Or the nerves are frayed and need soothing. The mind is bored and needs stimulating. The ears itching and need to hear the sound of music, laughter. Maybe a walk along the creative path will expose the mind to peace like a tree swayed by the breeze. Maybe…the maybes are as much as your imagination can stretch.
Hours pass and all that is achieved is what a drunk achieves when he sloshes his brain with the memory tinkering contents of alcohol…forgetfulness. The situation doesn’t fade away but the consciousness of it does.
Slowly the tightness unwinds, the frenzy comes to a grind, the ice melts, the eye blinks…there is a sneeze swiftly ferried away by the breeze.
No doubt, Life is back.