There are days where I find myself going offroad in my own mind, kicking up mud and revealing skeletons long buried. The trunk is loaded up with so much baggage, I didn't know I even owned that much luggage. I'm taking state highways and dirt roads and backwood paths, trying to find someplace to bury my ghosts, trying to find someplace that'll bring me peace.
Sometimes I'm just going through the motions and hoping no one will notice that the glow has faded from my eyes. An automaton, wake work rest wake work rest wake work rest. I'm on autopilot and my feet know where they're expected to be. My soul is comatose and unresponsive.
Reality and I are rarely on good terms with one another. I often find myself looking back on things that have happened earlier in the day or earlier in the week and have trouble deciding if those things even occured or if it was a remnant of one of my terribly bland dreams still floating about from the night before. Diaconcerting doesn't even begin to describe the feeling you get when you can't decide if a vivid memory in your own brain is real or not. Maybe it's fatigue, maybe I'm just losing my grip, maybe everyone experiences it and I just feel like I'm unique. Yesterday morning I dreamed I had a brief conversation with my new boss at the MS Society about when I'd be into the office for the day. While I was showering I remembered the call but couldn't remember if it was a dream or not. I checked my phone after I got out of the shower, but no call had been logged. Is this what being an insomniac feels like? Sleep is both my poison and my cure, filling my head with dreams of flight and saving my waking mind from madness. What I need is rest, but that's the one thing that's eluded me for so long that I don't know that I'd recognize it if I found it.