BLANKET OF FOG (borrowing Lorna Dee words)

Woke up that morning in a wet blanket of fog. I thought it was just because I had overslept. But the fog wouldn't lift. It filled my nose and lungs, my head with air and nothing sounds. I kept moving through it, high-stepping over it, trying to step out of it, cross through to the other side of wellness (whatever that is). But it wouldn't dress off, wouldn't wash off, wouldn't drink off, the sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea no substitute for the real thing. Much thought about what's real always. I thought it was just that thought-fog keeping up with me. But no. It was real. It is always real. It is penetrating and dulling my one and only self. Filling me up with something else (besides my own petty self and this silly heart), something impenetrable and lasting for the moment it takes to fill me with this gritty crispness, a fragile skin of today, brittle and thin. Where I was merely melting, dissolving at the mouth and eyes and breath, today I'm dry, a sec sac of air, a full bladder of intense numbness in the brain.

Lea la versión única y verdadera de esto en: Lorna Dee Cervantes blog, porque aquí las negritas son mera invención y el texto, bruta apropiación.