I’ll never understand my condition and my thoughts.
At peace, it’s beautiful and I see clearly and can see clearly and appreciate music, art and literature. I can be creative and positive and free and almost smile.
But it’s the fogs and clouds and darkness I dislike the fuzziness and cotton wool cloud that I make do with in the daytime, the bright lights and the noises, the too loud voices, the irritating sounds and the heat and the warmth and the whole cocoon of it all.
My intellect gets me so far, I’m smarter than that big cloud of stuff, but it’s continual and it doesn’t ever stop.
So I block it out. The headphones, the ear pieces, the coloured glasses, hats anything to lessen it all.
To breathe cool air, to feel gentle textures to move gently, to float, glide, to be effortless, to whisper.
To fascinate in detail, to appreciate things, to see every detail, to know nuance and the parts and bits and colours and..
It comes to fog. Blank faces, words misunderstood, raging at ignorance and incomprehension.
Knowing this language and the beauty of its words and sounds and inflections, but stumbling at Hi.
Liking people and wanting to be at one with them and finding the corner, the edge, near the door.
Days and time and being lost in a thought that’s moved away as quick as their conversation.
The watch and the minutes and being stuck doing and thinking and not knowing it’s moved onward.
Scheming and planning and hoping and getting bogged down when it comes to action.
Being approximately normal and knowing the gap is vast and the leap there is huge.
I’m no poet. I’m no singer. I’m no artist. I live for the eyes and smiles of three people I love.