Eye of the Storm

There's a painful calm in not knowing how things will go. It tears at your chest and weakens your muscles till you can't even fold your fingers into a fist; there's no fighting it. Everything blurs by, bright and mocking, never still, never clear, and you sit at the centre, the eye of the storm, watching it pass, unsure of how to proceed from where you are. Too afraid to get caught in the rush, too restless to sit by and do nothing. Too young to be so tired.