It’s like being placed in a glass tank and you can’t be heard. Trapped from the outside world, you hammer the sides with your fists until they are vermillion blurs, but no one can hear. No one can even see, as if the walls are somehow so translucent in their clarity, they morph into the surroundings like a prison cell of invisibility.
But that is where the old me is - cast away into purgatory, lost forever swirling in a black hole of despair.
The frustration is a smouldering volcano ready to erupt. Things feel so out of sync. Out of control.
And yet also strangely within grasp. It’s like the dropped catch in cricket - you almost had it all in your palm, but you messed up, lost your cool. Your eye was distracted, your mind maybe scanned a different thread for an atom of time, and the next thing you know the ball has slipped between your unresponsive fingers.
And its gone.
What do you do when you are a different person? Do you throw up the white flag? Or do you soldier on in the hope of some kind of miracle?
The odd sensation of no longer existing makes me feel like I am floating, and yet I feel weighed down in my very own special iron diving suit. The sparks that used to ignite my veins can no longer catch. Worse, the motor will no longer start because someone has thrown away the key.
Describing the loneliness is the blackest of ski runs; climbing an emotional Everest. It’s a hollowing out of your being; scooping yourself out like an avocado until all that remains is the hard skin shell. It’s frighteningly disconcerting. It’s standing at the extremest point of the edge... of the largest edge in the world.
And yet even then it doesn’t even come close to explaining it. How tragically pathetic it makes you feel, how articulating the sensation can make you feel the most gigantic loser.
Where to go? Where do all the broken things go. Things that cannot be fixed.
I have woken up with amnesia, only forgotten to lose my memory.
