A soft glaze, a sharp freeze

December 21, 2009

It all starts to come back now. This feeling that’s always returned to drape and hang over me for as long as I can remember. Sleep isn’t sleep, and awake isn’t awake, and I can’t figure I do much of either, but something in between. Home isn’t my own, not really. Except oddly the bathroom rug, where every step away from it is another step into a foreign, disorienting country with signs I can’t read, madness of traffic, and a mess of faces I don’t recognize. And love is—for as long as this lasts—nothing more than a warm spot to huddle and hide as frostbitten wind runs through; but it only does me modest good, and only when I’m crouching on it.

It is the unmistakable feeling of having gauze wrapped around my head, binding down my whiskers so that I’m clumsily grasping for my center of balance and numbly bumping into things I can, fuzzily, already see. I can close my eyes, and it all washes away like the tide. I open them again, and it’s all splashing back into me, rising up closer to the top of my head, and swaying me in its wake like a limp bag of interconnected lifeless pieces.

I always wonder how long this is going to stay. And it never stays forever, but it always comes back. Questions, questions I only half-care about. Is this winter? Is this sickness? Is this personal? Is this normal? Is this going to be the one that lasts? Is this going to be me, then?

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