You’re doing fine and the next second you feel an overwhelming wave crash over you and you’re having trouble breathing. For a whole minute you are trapped; thinking you will never, ever make it or function properly again. You think: it will kill me, there is no way I can survive this unbroken. Bewildered and terrified, it will be one of the worst moments of your life.
You will make it out alive. You just need to remind yourself how it ends next time it happens.
It starts in your heart. A sting. Brought on by a favorite song that has always moved you, a kissing couple in the subway. Flicking a cigarette and catching sigh of your hand. Then it spreads, all over. It takes you over within a minute and you find yourself involuntary disconnected from everything around you, acutely aware of how hollow you have become. You feel a thousand years old worth of yearning, and the force of a hundred suns holding you back, restraining you, in the here and now. The here and now.
It fades away. But it comes back stronger. Always.
A terminal search for silence. And because quietness and peace are not always synonymous, there seems to be a need for a pacifier. It’s an incredible gift to know how to be still. What's even more incredible, is to know how to teach it.