The Act of Writing

That sick feeling in your stomach. The cloying nausea that sets into motion the swoops and swirls of molten lava in the pit of your belly. It claws its way upwards, setting up shop in the cavity of your chest, no longer does your heart reside there, no that's shrunken in fear, all that is left is the vague pain. It sends tremors down your arms, your fingers shaking uncontrollably. That feeling of dread. It makes you want to be physically sick. You know its coming. Lying in wait, somewhere just out of sight, out of your control. There is nothing you can do, and doesn't that just make it worse? The dread lies heavy in your gut, icy cold and you're always, always aware of it. It spreads, the ice, down into your legs, making you creak, one second away from cracking. Your shrunken heart beats frantically, almost hard enough to break your ribs and burst free of its cage of splintered bone. There isn't much time left. the wristwatch your father left to you, that...