Mary Beth Holcomb

Yet I’m oddly unworried, floating backward on this conveyer belt into what I’m told will be a “very loud” machine, an MRI for these headaches that plague me each day. The sounds are loud, unbelievably so, but I feel good, safe in a moment where all I can do is surrender to stillness, close my eyes and breathe.

Where’s the hook? It’s just my story. But I’m sick of the fantastical; sick of distance.

Thought.is

The Worrier

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