This is My Bubble.
My Bubble isn’t stationary, it encapsulates me everywhere I go.
While it may look comfortable and sunny now in the light of day, it is also very dark when night falls.
My Bubble may seem spacious and airy, since it does follow me wherever I travel, but I now find it claustrophobic and stifling.
The sweet song of birds chirping wakes me each morning, and the call of crickets and frogs sing me to sleep each night with a steady, dependable rhythm, they are my metronome, inspiring brief episodes of calm before the storm to come.
The faint caress of a light breeze stirs lazily through My Bubble.It refreshes my lungs and whispers away the dust that has gathered during my travels. I close my eyes and take a deep breath smelling all that lingers from its dance across the world outside My Bubble.
This is another rare moment of peace before the squall that is to come.I wish I could stay here in this tranquil space between storms, but it dissipates as quickly as it arrived.
The scenery from all angles has gifted me with breathtaking views, but it also puts me in a very vulnerable position; I too am able to be seen from all angles.
Or so I thought.
Even now that I know I can’t be seen by anyone outside of My Bubble, I still feel like I am on display.
I feel raw, every nerve begging in silent agony for relief.
It didn’t start as a physical pain. First it was unbridled emotions boiling over without provocation. There are many times I am unable to identify the trigger, even after long periods of intense contemplation.
The few episodes when I can readily finger the culprit, it begins as I ask for quiet, and a little less flurry of activity.
I am overstimulated, muscles so taught they cramp, trying my best to drown it all out and focus on one, just ONE task.
My repeated pleas go unheeded.
Then suddenly, one more miniscule drop of water lands.
It is one drop too many, no matter how small.
The dam staving off the raging rapids explodes and with hurricane gale force, consuming everything in its path, and as it bears down on me, so close I’m sure this will be the last.
As the waters run off I close my eyes and brace myself to see the pure destruction left behind, and frantically think of ways to rebuild.
When I finally find the strength to open my eyes and assess the damage, I find none. Nothing, No sign of the tumultuous rage I just witnessed.
How can that be?
I see someone approaching me, as they come closer I can hear them talking to me. They stop right in front of me, gesturing so vividly I’m sure they will bump My Bubble and we will have a good laugh about it. I continue the conversation.
My visitor suddenly doesn’t seem to be following the same conversation I am.I hear myself say, “What? I don’t understand.” They are looking right at me, and didn’t seem to hear my question.
Puzzled, I watch my visitor begin walking again, still conversing, though now I brace for the inevitable collision with My Bubble. I cringe, and wait as my visitor’s stride never slows.
I look around to see what’s taking so long, and my visitor walks right through me, as if I wasn’t standing right there.
I turn to follow my visitor’s path, and find someone else behind me, and I can now hear the conversation between the two.
My visitor’s strange responses to me now make sense.
My Bubble is not a scenic place of respite.
It is my prison.
How long will I be forced to stay here, invisible, my cries for help swallowed by the walls of My Bubble?