Sometimes the old, familiar fog settles in, the inability to be present.

This room could be any room.

The sun shines in, weightless. I hug my pillow for sensation, and it is soft, but not so much that I want to keep holding on. I get into the experience too deeply, and it doesn't seem all that pleasant. The fabric of my body weighs. I feel like something massive had struck me, and had knocked me out of my body, and we just don't know yet, my body & I.

Sometimes the world inspires very little feeling in me. Some internal holding pattern, and I don't know if the plane is going to land, or if it ever lands. And if it crashes, I'm not feeling a thing.