The writer here is umair haque, one of my favorites.
Wham! Something strange, ugly, cold, and painful raced through me. It rocked me to my core. It shook me like a leaf. I ran to the bathroom, feeling nauseous, upset, suddenly dialed up to 11.
It wasn’t the show. It was the certain, singular kind of panic attack I’ve had since I was a little kid. A thing made of intense existential dread, of heart-pounding mortality, of the head-spinning realization that everything will one day be nothing at all. Is that all there is? What is this strange nightmare we’re living through — not knowing why we’re born, knowing we’re going to die, not knowing where we go, time turning us to dust? How can this be me, you, everything, us?
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