Everything is fine.

It’s good.

In fact, perhaps, just maybe, there’s a possibility things are even great – but I cannot say for certain for my heart, my heart is beating far too fast, so very, very fast. My thoughts are swiftly swirling, swirling, swirling into a vortex, into a void – spinning fast and furious, and then faster, faster still – pulling apart with magnificent, terrifying ease, the finely woven tapestry, the tapestry of * me *. Threads of my reality are fraying, strings and strands and tendrils of  . . . sanity? being swallowed by a nothingness I swear is all too real.

Silly, silly girl. I know. Everything is fine.

Tell it to my heart, it’s beating faster still.

Everything is fine. I must write the words to make them real. Words. Words. Which ones?

The right ones, the right ones of course.

Words. I must simply write the words because maybe things are great and I need do nothing more than read them to remind my beating (still too quickly) heart . . . remind my heart to tell me, tell me everything is fine.

Write the words and swallow half a little pill . . . write them, read them, once and then again, and then again once more.

The tempest quells, the words prevail – the words prevail once more.
Everything is fine.