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It’s 4 a.m.

I wake.

I’m sweating.


Just like the night before and the night before that.

A week prior I ask the doctor why while she is cupping my balls.

She runs some tests.

Says I am healthy.

She says it is my anxiety.

I eventually fall back asleep.

I wake.

It’s 7 a.m.

I have five minutes of quiet before my mind starts racing.

It builds momentum slowly, like a locomotive.

But once it gets going it doesn’t stop.

By 7:30 a.m., 6,000 tons of thoughts are screaming through my skull like roaring metal.

I sit down.

I begin to write and if I write long enough and well enough, the thoughts don’t slow but they become bearable and when they become bearable I can live with them and if I can live with them I can dance with them.

At 9:30 a.m. my therapist calls me back.

For an hour we work to make sense of these thoughts.

He has a big whiteboard.

He points to it and teaches me how my brain works differently than other people’s and that’s why at times I feel like I’m mad.

I am mad.

At 6 p.m. I ‘m having coffee with a pretty face.

I think to myself that it might be time to lay off the stimulants.

She comments on how calm I am.

It’s ironic.

If I am thankful for anything, it’s that she can’t see the war inside my head.

By Cole Schafer.

P.S. One day these one-minute writings will be a big book called “One Minute, Please.” Can I let you know when that day comes? You can say yes, here.

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I write pretty words and sometimes sell things.

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