Breathing and Dying

This is an exercise I did a while ago, but just recently went back and tweeked. The goal is to write an enough story with one sentence that is grammatically correct.

There’s never enough oxygen, never enough to breathe, never enough to burn all these negative emotions that are raging inside of me, smoldering my innards until they’re a smoking mess; there’s never enough, and I don’t know if I can stay here where the smog fills up my lungs, where everyone only glances at me with barely restrained pity, and thrive; I just can’t do that, can’t live in a place that is pressing down upon me with a burden such that I can’t move forward, can’t take another step, can’t breathe, just can’t, can’t, can’t; can’t thrive, can’t survive, can’t imagine a future with all this smoke sucking the life out of my lungs that are collapsing against my better judgment, my incessant pleading, but it’s not only the smoke that is causing the shortage of breath, but also the stairs I’ve been climbing because the stupid elevator broke down after the 32nd level and I’m on the 44th now, sucking in oxygen that isn’t there like a black hole that isn’t where it’s suppose to be, and the breeze on the roof is so pleasant against my fevered thoughts that are trying to burn themselves out of my skull, their claws ripping through bone, and I go towards the rail that says ‘caution,’ and my feet are slipping on the wet concrete, and I’m not quite sure if this is what I meant to do, because I’m hurtling towards the bars, and over, and over, and over, I go, and the wind is drowning out the clawing, and billowing away the smoke, and I can finally breathe, and the oxygen is coming back, and the fire that had been smothered is raging again, burning all the hate and anger; so I inhale again, and let the breeze open my eyes, and frightened because I’m freefalling and I don’t want to die yet, I just wanted to breathe, but it’s too late now, and I have to follow through, and...then it’s over, all the air and the fear, and it doesn’t hurt because there’s a cushion under me and the director’s yelling ‘cut!’ and my breath has been knocked out of me again, and I stand up, walk away, and try to smile, but my body’s shaking, and my head hurts, and the smog of the city is suffocating me.

The End

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