Just... write.

Write a line.
Stare at it,
At the blinking, expectant cursor.

Backspace.

Keep going,
Keep typing.
You’re Blake,
Folded beneath a tree in Peckham Rye,
And the bark is imprinting its age into your skin.
You see angels – real angels,
Like the one you felt resting its chin on your left shoulder
The same week Nan died,
Or the one who slapped its tiny hand across your forehead when you were sleeping, and not living.
No one else sees them, but no one else needs to as much as you do.

You dream of Fear.
He’s always hiding at the top of a tower block.
You drag your feet toward him,
A slow slog, shoulders always slumped because the lift never works,
And what good is going anywhere if you’re not moving?
He waits for you: the storm that tears the sky in two and ripples through your bones,
The rain that bursts through the opening and drenches your consciousness –
Soaked, cold and panting,
Gasping for air like the Piscean whose fins were clipped at birth.

The angel must have woken you when she saw the tears on your face and
Inhaled the perspiration on your perpetually frozen palms
As you inhaled the hail.
Breathe,
She wants you to breathe,
To loosen your grip on Fear and climb higher,
Beyond him,
Toward the gaping hole in the sky.