March 8, 2018

road closed

I can't write.

When I'm like this, the car stays quiet during my morning drive.  I can't sing.  Listening would be unbearable, a straw up-and-down through a fast food drink lid.  Headlights hurt.  And I can't sing.

I can speak, but it's difficult.  I choose my words carefully and it takes effort to enunciate and to keep from whispering, mumbling.  I have to focus to speak.  I can breathe, but it's harder.  I notice it.  Time is slow.  Breathing takes seconds.  Existing takes minutes.

Depression is creating roadblocks in sections of town in my brain.  Parts are missing.  I'm not all here.  The figure of speech.  "I'm just not all here today."  I'm not all here.

Who is a person when chunks of her are in absentia?  The rest of me is here, and people probably think I'm me, but there are orange and white barricades everywhere I look.

I can type.  But I can't write.

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