Into the Fog

12:20 am and I drive into the fog.  This time it’s literal.  Things are inside out.  I think, “well, isn’t this interesting.”  I let my imagination soak up the metaphor…

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.

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