She wants reasoned explanations for involuntary mechanisms.
I can’t tell her why I sometimes prefer solitude to company
any more than I can explain my craving for chocolate.
I tell her anxiety is just a fancy form of fear
like panic dressed up for a picnic.
I tell her the higher you go the further away you travel from your center
and every breath you take takes you closer to the heart of your matter
so much living leaves so little life
the strife leaves you stricken and exhausted
you’re surrounded by the cure.
I tell her it’s a long story
and an old one.
She tells me short stories are best.
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