Journal Entry of a Turtle

September 28^th, 2008

I am going to die.  I was standing alone in my kitchen when it hit.  I am going die.  My knees felt weak.  My heartbeat increased.  I am going to die.  I am going to die.  It took hold of my stomach.  It felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before.  I am going to die.  I put my glass of water down on the counter.  I bent over and put my hands on my knees.  I am going to die.  Deep, quick breaths.  It was emptiness spreading inside of me, I am going to die, a hole opening up into a nothing, widening from the dead-center of my stomach, expanding into my chest, into my legs.  It paralyzed my thoughts.  Until that was it: I am going to die.  It just sat there in front of me.  I am going to die.  Nothing behind it.  I am going to die.  Nothing in front of it.  I am going to die. Nothing else.  All I felt was nothing. 

I am going to die. Nothing.  I am going to die.  Nothing.  I am going to die.  Nothing.  I am going to die.  Nothing.  I am going to die.  Nothing.  I am going to die.  Nothing.  I am going to die. Nothing.

And then I was afraid.  Fear swept in like a saving force.  The nothing was still there, inside of me, but I was afraid of it now, which meant that it wasn’t me anymore.  I wanted to curl up in the corner.  I wanted to hide from it.  I wanted to hide from something that wasn’t me.  But still, it stared at me, stared at my thoughts.  But my thoughts were there now.  Distinct from it.  I wanted to run.  I wanted to cringe.  I wanted to react.  It was desire.  It rejected what had just come in.  Desire and fear were fighting it down.  They pinned it.  And I was regaining control.  My breathing became more regular.  I had tamed it.  It was something at the bottom of my thoughts now, just a small patch of a phrase: I am going to die, spread flat like a thin layer of soil.

The kitchen hadn’t changed, but it had.  I stood still for a little while before I picked up the glass of water and took a sip.  It tasted the same.  And it tasted different.  I looked at the microwave.  Four numbers stared back at me.  11:32.  Glowing red.  It seems dumb, but there was someone behind those numbers.  Someone, motionless, patient, who had just watched me suffer something of a panic attack.  And I knew it was only me and that someone behind those four numbers.  Our eyes locked, turning the moment into a contest, a staring match between me and that thing behind the numbers.  And then its left eye blinked:  11:33.