No Season is Final

18/04/2023

My mind is a butterfly, flitting from one topic to another. Even music does not hold me together like it usually does; if you ask me what I am playing, I will stare blankly at you, my brain struggling to register the present.

On such days, when my body is definitively breaking down into something else, I experience life differently, almost in vignettes, in moments of stolen lucidity, before my mind decides to sink back into a little pool of black goop.  

My tongue is swollen, as are my lymph nodes. These are also the days when I lose my taste; my bulbous tongue mixing up the sweets, sours, salties and bitters, leaving me with a blanket sense of confusion.

Imagine, losing a whole sense, just like that. And then to have it return.

Later in the cycle, if you ask me to describe these feelings to you, I struggle. I do not have words to explain the depths to which my mind descends to, and how it emerges.

This piece was first published on RIC Journal. Click here to read the full story.

Cover image sourced from here.