None of this is a call for help, nor is it any kind of alarm.
It is just another reflection about a particular state.
While I can write, I write – there may be a time when writing is no longer available.
Am I trying to be ahead of my time? I remember thinking very clearly that “the true avant-garde is death” – that’s what I thought in my twenties
This is not the topic here.
It has to do with the fact that there is a possibility that what one calls “brain fog” appears, and remains.
I had a few hours of it today & I wondered how thick it would get. And how persistent it would be.
But here I am, typing all of this down: the panic may not be warranted, but my concern is as thick as the isolation I found myself caught by.
It is not a matter of politeness.
Part of this thick haze consists of the distance between the medical words (the diagnostics) I hear, and the subtle yet concrete fluctuating sensations I am feeling.
All of this comes and goes, and I remain. For now.