[ WP ] Write your heart onto your sleeve , Reddit .

Diecast cars racing on a track. Tick Tock Spin. 
 
 Crash! The blue one with a checkered roof pummels through the air. 
 
 More race, round and round -- the tracks diverging, coming together. Cars slam and crash and break and *explode* into heaps of color. Plastic parts strewn like half-sewn arms litter the carpet too thin to cushion their fall. 
 
 Breathe. 
 
 Relax. 
 
 One. 
 
 Two. 
 
 The sweats have almost gone now. Heart still races a beat or two too rapid. Mind still swirls, neurons still crashing. But softer now. Muted and muffled. The constant turn of the fan no longer sounds like thunder. 
 
 I wish I could be frustrated by this. I should be, I think. But it seems to have overtaken my norm. Sick for weeks, and now hit again from being cooped up too long. 
 
 Ceilings make me hold my breath too shallow; my shoulders creep up and in. 
 
 The open sky no longer shows the sunset. Just darkness now, and I'm scared of the cold. Frustration's creeping in along with anger now, I can feel the vines twisting and turning and trying to grow thick. 
 
 Have you ever tried to remove old ivy? It's like you can never find the root under it all. When you do you find it's too thick for your orange handled clippers -- the ones that you lost twice in the space between leaves. And the root does n't yield easy. You clamp and it twists, suddenly slickening your blade with interior moisture. 
 
 The inner circle of the vine is tinged with green and you almost feel bad for destroying that life. It did n't look to alive when it was covered in dried gray detrius, hiding from you under a matted web of supporting limbs. You cut it anyway. And not just cut, but tear, *rend*. You spin the blade around and press -- hard. Fiber by fiber it cracks, but does n't go down without a fight. And when it's left a tangled fibrous edge and a shroud of sweat has touched your shoulders, you look down and it's still buried deep in insect-covered earth. You'll need a shovel. You look up and there's still several yards of ivy to go. You could almost clothe yourself in it, if you cut all the connections to the ground. Maybe slip under it like a blanket and let the spiders crawl over the hairs on your skin, melt into slime and grow with the snails. 
 
 You've forgotten where you put the shovel. And do n't feel like getting it now anyways. The orange plastic handle dangles from your two-fingered grip. Would n't it be nice if then, just for a moment, you could rest a while? 
 
 & nbsp; 
 
 Yeah, it probably would.
