Fear in a Handful of Dust

I had fallen asleep amid a heaving, wrenching and absolute sob. Just minutes after ingesting a dubitable dose of this and that. I had sat half an hour or so staring at the the bottles; over thinking the amounts I would allow to pass through my lips. All the while nearly hyper ventilating and convulsing with the emotional agony that had given itself to physical turmoil. I didn't feel sleep coming on. It just came. It interrupted, finally. I awoke engaged in the other end of, what seemed, that same sob. I wondered if I had cried continuously in my sleep. My physical exhaustion was such that I could easily believe I had. I remembered though the slightly inflated doses of downers and sleep aids I had desperately swallowed. My despair was still raging. My ears were full of it and my eyes blinded with it. All I had in this moment, it seemed, was this severe heartbreak. It had a pulse and a fever. It was corporeal. I was wrapped in it, like the comforter that was contorted around me. I pulled myself out of bed. Knowing that I needed to step away from the pill bottles and pad of paper that were taunting me from the bedside table. I was upright, mostly, and walking, but I felt immobile. This sadness was a brick pillar built up around me and I stumbled languidly against its sides.