Becoming OK

Sometimes when I'm laying in bed, I stop being able to breathe and it's like someone has popped my balloon-lungs — or maybe they're lung-balloons. Either way, I'm in bed, on crumpled sheets, all alone, and all of a sudden, all of my air starts to leak out. And as my air leaks out, I start to freak out, and I can't stop thinking about all the things I should be doing in that moment other than losing air and forgetting how to do the most basic of human tasks. Anyway, I can't really focus on that because my lungs are going flat like bike tires left in the garage too long waiting for spring or green peppers pushed to the back of the fridge in favor of the more colorful red, yellow, and orange. But speaking of green peppers, isn't it about time I go to the grocery store again and what was I going to get, again, can I be bothered, what is even the point? Of course, there is always that ice cream that comes in a too-small tub and is too-expensive but tastes too good to care, or perhaps a nice kombucha from a local fermentery — and isn't that a funny word and isn't it nice to pop the top on good can? And then just as quickly as it started, I am reinflated and reinvigorated and reborn and born again and breathing and breathing again and breathing and again and again and breathing again. My balloon-lungs are lung-balloons are full of vim and vigor and it's time to get out of bed. At least until next time.