before there were fast things
bright circling things
distractions to retreat into
life chugged along
you took trains with the one you love
watched the rapid retreat of thoughts through the window
swept up in the tunnels and wind
and you chugged distracting liquids with friends
you worked
often choked by the speed of approach
but it was normal
you received therapy
a gift, wrapped in cardboard and posted second class
but when it arrived it was beautiful
bright white and spacious
revealing
you took deep, agonising breaths full of it
holding them in
then there was panic
a sudden breathless rush
coming in from the cold; a ruthless, aching wind
before all life slowed down
trains passed through empty stations
pasta briefly graced empty shelves
beds emptied and refilled
there were some fast goodbyes
and then you were home
surrounded and thawing but somehow alone
therapy came crackling and broken by static down the phone
work arrived in spluttering bursts; and then it flowed
and there was no time to think
no time to breathe or seek a safer place inside
but you did not mourn these things – they had barely crossed your mind
now there is some pause
a slowing down of sorts
as life begins to open up
albeit at a changing speed
the flow of work splutters almost to a halt
a trickle
and you can breathe just for a moment
but in the freshness of this breath
there is a sour note
a sense of older problems creeping in
now they have been awarded space to swell and bloat
to regain old hard-fought ground
and still, there are no swooping trains to be whisked away by
no touch to be taken over and consumed by
not even the familiar rush of cool air to be renewed by
you do not know what to do with these sprawling empty days
but this painful part of you does; it rushes in with anxious thought
to fill the space in between
and pull you to the very edges of the room squealing and taut
therapy salvages some clarity again
in terrifying painful truths it says
you must reclaim the air it swallows every day
and step into the space instead
you must reframe the time it takes
not as some sorry stolen thing
but as an opportunity to bring
your fullest self to the fight
an opportunity
to stretch yourself out – astonished, and renewed
and extend into the light
Mac is a writer from Manchester, currently studying in Sheffield. He writes mostly poetry, and enjoys writing surreal, dream-like poetry focusing on his own experiences battling mental health issues. He also enjoys dystopian and Lovecraftian short fiction, and the overlap between this and his poetry. You can find him on Twitter @mac__goodwin, or on his website mac-goodwin.com
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