[For the past few weeks I've been implementing a meditation practice. It's not easy to just following my thoughts. Here's a short creative piece that attempts to capture the free floating anxieties ;-). ]

First thing: 15 minutes, on the microwave. It’s not long, but doable. Eyes closed though I was just sleeping, or at least halfway through the clock radio NPR chatter. One. Two. Three. Why is my breath so shallow? It should be more expansive than this, more about pulling in and letting go. Yoga class, remember? Six. Maybe it's the position, sitting here on the floor, atop this slightly squishy block. Seven. Or it’s a lung problem? Nine. A lump in my throat that feels like heartache. Why do I still feel heartache? Four. It's been weeks. He's got to realize he made a mistake. Seven. Maybe there’s a text. I’m not looking until this is over. Thirteen. Oops, wasn’t supposed to go past ten. One. Will I cave and send him an e-mail? I know I shouldn't.  Seven. My lower back. Oy. Nine. I need to write something short. I should write about this. It's contained. It's got structure. Twelve. Fuck! Dial it back to one. Let the thoughts go. Two. Still shallow. Five. That asshole on Scruff. Really, could he be any more stereotypical? Dick pic, disappearance. Ten. Composing between breaths just seems wrong. Mindfulness not multi-tasking! Three. Losing count. Nine. Earlier on the radio: A Berkeley high school teacher says he’s on "the back end of life". He's my age exactly. Seven. My morning shit moves into place. I can last fifteen minutes, though how far into this am I? Five, is that where I was? Six.  I bought cheap chairs online. A poor quality mistake. I should have held out for better. One. Will he ever see them? Two. Won't he be proud that I'm sitting here doing this? It was his idea in the first place. Five. Is there anything to eat for breakfast? Seven. How will I keep myself from looking at my e-mail once my eyes are open?  Eleven. Again!? I keep over counting. Back to the body. One. Legs cramp. Yawn. I break the spell that I’m barely in. Two. Does this even do anything? Three. The bed’s rumpled. I should wash the sheets. TODAY. Six. Back end of life. Did the guy on the radio really say "eternally single"? Eight. Despair. Ten. Maybe I can get my lungs to expand with practice. Four. Five. Six. Another heartache lump in my throat. Nine. How much time do I have left?