lemon; ash

I've started to be able to quantify the anxiety; an overwhelming sensation of lemon and ash. Sometimes, I smell the lemon, taste the ash, like someone's swiped the surface nearest to me with a cleaning wipe. My mouth feeling too dry, too dark, and unable to be assisted by mere water, like I hunger for something not able to be found. The precursor to the depths, I'm a gaping maw aching for something I can't identify. Nothing I look at, nothing I consume can fix it; I turn inwards and try to digest myself, ask myself what is going on, and only get in reply, from deep within, "Something is wrong." Unhelpful, because it won't tell me the specifics of how to fix it, how to get rid of it.

I eat food, read good books, stare at beautiful art - holding each one out to the odd little creature in my mind asking, "Is this good enough?"

"No," is the resounding reply, as the ash persists on my tongue, made even more unbearable as I've tried to temper it with something sweet. "Something is still wrong."

"How do I fix it?"

There is no reply.

"Can I fix it?"

There is no reply.

Other times, when the anxiety has reached a fever pitch, the senses switch. The taste of lemon is like acid coating my tongue, the scent of ash is something near me, myself, burning - a pervasive phantom. Something is burning, and I need to fix it, I can sense it, but I cannot see it. The anxiety twisting me up internally, that tart taste veering towards bile and disgust at my own lack of ability to tackle whatever is setting my nervous system alight.

I'm smelling the ash today.