My brain fog seeps out of my tear ducts in slow, deliberate puffs. The fog is thick, solid. The lamp posts stand idle and useless. I give them sideways glances – “well, clearly you’re no help.”
For the first time in weeks, I turn off the radio. It’s usually turned up all the way; till it hurts, till it’s nothing but noise, till I can’t hear my thoughts. But I’m in the fog now, so for some reason that calls for silence.
Suddenly, I am willing to hear what I have to say.
My brain fog is different now. Collateral damage. It’s more of a physical sensation now, it’s more intense, heavy… but most importantly, it never lifts. My perspective is always veiled with it. I don’t think the same.
People find their way through a foggy night because they are confident that underneath the fog everything is exactly the same; the street names, that right turn, the restaurant on the corner. For months, my inflamed brain distorted my world, tricked me into buying into the make-believe. In the aftermath, every moment of everyday, whether I am staring into the eyes of the person I am talking to or watching the lights change at a busy intersection, I wonder if what I am seeing, hearing, touching, feeling is the “real deal.” I’m not sure if what I experienced before all this happened was the “real deal.” I’m pretty sure none of that really matters anyway.
It’s not a bad thing. It doesn’t make me unhappy. It’s just different. And somehow, even through the fog, even though I feel confused sometimes, displaced, detached from this body of mine, from other people… even despite all that, it’s like I’m not in a fog at all. Clarity in disguise, perhaps?
I found my way home tonight, of course. I always do. I’d like to think that we’re never as lost as we think we are.