July 11, 2011
Nervous is a bitter taste that coats your tongue and lingers until the reason for fear is gone. It feels like a quiver, like shaking, trembling hands. And it feels like nausea, like a turning stomach. Nervous smells like alcohol and blood. It turns you away, makes you think twice. Nervous looks like beads of perspiration, running down your forehead. It looks like an unsteady grip, an unbalanced object. Nervous sounds like imagined sirens and unreal angry voices. It sounds like future reprimands. Nervous is the sound of echoing, empty places, all alone. Nervous is just that knowing sense you get, your inner eye working to create scenes of destruction and trouble if you follow through. It senses danger, warns you of the avalanche, sometimes takes advantage of your already too eager fears. Nervous is a blessing and a lie, wrapped so tightly together that one can never be separated from the other and must always coexist together.

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