It starts at my feet.
And it rises slow and heavy all around me.
It consumes.
It envelopes me.
It makes it hard to breathe.
Impossible to see.
And moving is entirely out of the question.
My insides battle.
I had felt so right.
I was good.
I want to push through.
Not just move, but fly.
My mind soars.
Lifted by dreams.
Carried by tomorrows.
As soon as my heart tries to follow.
The heaviness moves in.
Pulling me down.
Holding me back.
Cementing me to the ground.
It all comes back to my feet. 

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[par-uh-shoot] noun, verb, -chut·ed, -chut·ing.
a folding, umbrellalike, fabric device for allowing a person, to float down safely through the air from a great height.

“But it’s hard to stay mad when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once and it’s too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.” — American Beauty