Photo Cred: Unsplash.

Photo Cred: Unsplash.

The involuntary weather of crushes, I'm calling it.

You know what I'm talking about.
You're around someone you're keen on and this nervous smog rolls in heavy.
You could cut and quarter it with a butter knife for crying out loud.

In my mind, it's a canteen of cold water on the motherboard making everything spark and spit. My heart turns into a 20-pound, hot chunk of metal thumping in my chest, all my sweat glands start spewing and I'm suddenly wondering where to put my hands.

I'm an instant idiot.

Standing in it can be
disorientating,
dismantling,
debilitating,
GUH.

What's so darn fascinating, though, is you can't manufacture physical symptoms.
They're their own truthful corporation, an annoyingly betraying gauge.
They don't lie. Unlike the heart and mind, a pair you can try to pay off to feel otherwise, your physical self kicks in and you're just leaking.

I used to want to just immediately divorce myself from that nervous smog.
To loosen the weather from around my foot and run.

But what I never understood was that the nervous smog is some version of unknowable magic. It's something golden in the air we so often escort out the door because we can't explain it, can't come to a conclusion about it.

It's terrifying.

But this week, God looked up with a knowing grin coiling onto His face.

"Take notes, D. Why don't you try standing in it, instead of bolting, and taking some notes? There's something significant for you to glean if you can dial down your sprint-mode setting."

A notepad hit my face, flicked from across the desk.
"Here's some paper," He smiled.