Unexplained anxiety (1)

I poured all my anger onto the door and slammed it a hundred times, wishing I had swallowed the key along with it. The sound of the vibration still echoes inside me, as if I am living the past and the present at the same time.
I wished to cry over the time that has passed, over the hair that has begun to be invaded by white, over lost chances at love, and over my grandmother who left me wandering like a feather in the wind. How many tears I have restrained and imprisoned forever within my ribs. I will have a heart attack soon… believe me.
At this moment, I wanted to stop writing, but I have some respect for the reader, and I know they have the right to read a story, a reflection, or even a meaningless fragment in a better form. Perhaps my stopping writing reflects my desire to stop living. I feel my heartbeat accelerating, my breathing turning into miserable attempts at inhaling and exhaling some drops of sweat, a sense of despair, then dryness in my mouth. Here I am once again facing a writer’s crisis that, in its details, resembles death itself.
“Open the door, my love.”
Oh love, stop calling me, for I am merely the remnants of what remains of me.