Feb. 18th, 2009

fortunavirilis: (McKean Barn)
My brain is full of fog, twirling mist from which I have to pick my thoughts like fruit from barely seen trees. The orchard is disorganized, I should be picking apples- hardy work fruit. But I keep pulling bananas and oranges and mangos- lazy, sleeping in a hammock fruit.

I need to clear the fog, to see the path, to work. But it isn't clearing today. And my shoulders hurt from the effort. Pain- sharp and then dull and then sharp again. The fog is cold against my skin, which makes me shiver, jerk- sharp slices of pain in my upper back running down to my wrists, a strange curve to my face.

The world is cold, hazy and I strive for focus. I feel utterly lost in this maze of trees and shadows and at any moment I fear I might fall into a ravine or worse.

Sleep is the only time of safety because I just don't care at that point that I'm lost and cold and hurt. But I can't sleep at work and I fear I can't go home. But sleep seems like a magical cure for everything right now. If I could just sleep a little longer the sun would clear the fog. But the sun doesn't penetrate my own self.


fortunavirilis: (Default)

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