I don’t want to write about the fog anymore.
The writing starts in my fingers — trying to capture these shreds of words, of stories. This writing comes from the silences — from this void of understanding. My hands want to write; my brain doesn’t know where to begin — why aren’t I writing? Because every scrap of concentration I have left goes into this never-ending exercise in proving myself.
My tired head doesn’t know how to find the words, the inclination — that longing, searching for home voice is lost — in the never enough time; not the right words for a state that lingers. If I could run screaming from this ache, I would. But alas, I would take this fog with me.
Long-silenced voices sometimes forget how to speak. How to form the space between this is where I am and where I could be. What happens to voices in the absence of words — when lingering forms still have no answer? When this ache is largely invisible.
When all I know how to say is okay and the safe places feel so ephemeral. They are a step-over back into words that mean nothing again. It’s scary not to care because caring hurts too much. Pushing through the apathy when everything beyond it feels wobbly and uncertain.
When there is not enough and too much time — I don’t want to write about the fog anymore. My pen cannot begin to describe how little I feel.
I remember when the words flooded this brain onto page — when there were no feelings — only thoughts. But there were feelings, just a lack of recognition — good, bad — that was it. I fear I have returned there; no grey, no nuance, just the silence of a black and white photograph that never really developed.
I fear losing this voice entirely; the narrator, the comforter, the seeing outside at all. I don’t know what to call this in-between anymore. When it just keep going and drags me with it.
The writing left with the joy as the fog descended. Then cleared, only to return, refusing further description.