the Throat is a Chakra

I don't speak much of eating. Of the bulimia. Never enough. A yoga instructor suggested that our deep breaths massage our organs. I wonder what purging does to organs. I take deep breaths. Drink water.

I think I am allergic to nuts and grains and dairy and sugar and caffeine. To gasoline. Alcohol. Jesus Christ. God. Intolerance. Pride. Darkness. Perhaps even sunlight. I wonder why no one else appears to be so forlorn.

Sunday evening, I walk toward the hospital to advocate for a victim of sexual assault, a survivor. It is showering and everything is dark, green, fresh. Damp. I straighten myself. Ask myself what I am trying to do. Peace. It comes fast, hard—in a snap. Quivering. I want peace.

And the taxi ride is exhilarating. The windows are down. The cold mist. The driver keeps handing paper towels to me. Playing nice music on the radio. I thank him for the ride. I call it nice. I haven't had a ride like that in a long time. Haven't felt so close to flying into myself. So sure of what it is that I do.

Currently reading:

A Thousand Splendid Suns

By Khaled Hosseini

Release date: 22 May, 2007