‘When we are under chronic stress, our muscles twitch because they think that at any moment, action will be required of them. So they are, in a sense, gearing up for the fight or flight, kind of like a track sprinter dragging his foot backward on the track as he prepares for the race. Anxiety tells the muscles, “Get ready. On your mark, get set…”
But the “go” never happens, because the stress is not of a life-threatening nature (such as a charging bison, falling rock or hissing snake of ancient times). So the muscles remain in idle, like a car at a stop light. The engine is on, but the car goes nowhere. The engine, in this case, is the muscle twitching. They are not relaxed. They are anticipating.’
My foot is telling me that I am thinking about her
as I watch television with both feet propped on the coffee table sat next to
a half empty bottle of Irn Bru
which is flat.
There is a red light from the TV that bounces off the light from the window
mixes inevitably with the dust in the air that I am breathing in
and out, but most of it is sticking
clamping, holding onto me inside my windpipe
my finger taps an fast rhythm to a jovial song
that I don’t know and isn’t being sung
The foot is uncorordinated, geekish in it’s independant flail,
like an awkward relative who springs his limbs away from him
on a new Years Eve dance floor.
But its moving like an alarm
trying to tell me that I’m thinking about him
and I should really think about him
but I won’t let the message get up past that white, pointed bone that
sticks out of my ankle.
Perhaps something is trying to speak to me, but rather I inhale slowly,
pushing my tongue sloppily against the roof of my mouth
to act as a filter.
As if I might keep out what flies, and lives in the air around me,
and only take in what might not hurt me.
I can feel the eye beginning to go,
the featherlight vibration of a rabbits foot
and I wonder if I could stand to go and get up a cup of tea
or if I am too shaky to pour the milk.
I am shaking.