Fog

It's been a funny week. Got back onboard last Friday and dove headlong into the thick of things, revelling in the long, taxing hours, content (dare I say, even glad?!) about "active", about being of some use, somewhere. But each day scratches away at the novelty just that tad more, and the gladness is slowly starting to resemble a dry "Hmmmm..."

Dry. Dry is what I feel. And no amount of generous slathering of moisturiser seems to make it go away. Think. I try to think, but it's almost as if my brain's slowly atrophying. An unobtrusive atrophy. No thoughts, happy or sad. None at all, not even the intangible, nameless ones. Empty. Not empty and aching. Just, empty, stoically hollow.

But there still are dreams. Those ephemeral five minutes between sleep and waking every morning, when my mind is still living its other life, are when I feel most alive. Most human. And the day I wake up to the knowledge that my mind never made that journey the previous night is when I'd know I truly died.