Withered Words

I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write.

My mind is a medicated fog these days as I stumble from one sunrise to the next, I’ve moved house again in an exhausting whirlwind of black plastic bin liners and Mr Muscle, I’m back in the rooms after relapsing just before hitting eight months sobriety, I feel dazed and exposed and heavy. I smell of bleach and damp laundry, I drink endless half litre bottles of water to clear my head. I sleep too much.

My words have withered. I feel like one of those neglected Victorian graveyards full of crumbling stone and brittle ivy, I am looking out at the world through pupils filmed with cloudy water, my body is lead-lined. This is, of course, depression at its most classically apathetic.

Not much else to say. I wait for the mad globe of my brain to spin round to the sun again. This will pass, it always does.

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