30.1.18 Front doormat
The pinch of my mind as it retreats and closes is a sensation I'm starting to recognise more easily. That is what self-pity is, it is opposite of outward attention: the lens of you pivoting and drawing inwards on autopilot until you take up the whole damn frame. You turn in and close all the doors as you go, carefully pushing out everything that doesn't relate directly to your pain, until all that's left is this one, dark tunnel to peer down, nothing but your own suffering at the bottom. Of course you can't help but look. You've forgotten there is anything else to look at.
I am, at least, beginning to fall quicker into the reverse, too. I know the long breath followed by the faint whirr of the trap released, pulling back to turn you by the shoulders. It is like waking in a car with the windows down; you feel it in your ears first. With a vertigo lurch, you let yourself move with the tilt and shift of it. The whole view starts to open up again and you watch it remade in front of you. The stretch and spaciousness you feel in your chest, the roof lifting. You feel the dot of yourself in the middle of all of it and you are no more a world than a blade of grass.
The relief of it, to know again that there is so much more than you, so much more to everything. And with clear-seeing, you can go back to looking around you again.