Life this week has felt dull, empty of its usual vibrancy, as one day – shaded into muted grey by my perspective – stutters into another. “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see” says the cover of the journal in front of me: yes indeed.
I have been ill, and flooded with nightmares, and have slept little. I wake from yet another nightmare, sweating and nauseous, and turn to try and find more rest, only to see images from the previous dream flitting relentlessly across my consciousness, stubbornly resisting my mind’s attempts to push them aside. Strange glimpses make me shudder to think of even now, and I find myself withdrawing from the memories in horror – images of my children’s bodies as they lie dead or dying; of quitting my job in a moment of hurt and fury, and then realising I won’t be able to pay bills, don’t want to leave the workplace I so love, and can’t undo the damage I have done; of loved ones lost and painfully out of reach.
Words, which usually flow so freely, are hard to find. I stretch out for them across blankness that I can’t make sense of, an unstable clumsiness that refuses to find its usual grace.