And then my brain stopped working. It churned to a halt and ensured I spent the rest of the day wading through a soup of blurry half thoughts. I dragged with me several sacks of wet, warm semolina, oh and there were bungee ropes tied to my legs. All I wanted to do was lay down on a cool cotton sheeted bed, in the shade, with an open window nearby and fall into the black sleep that accompanies proper bouts of fatigue. There are no dreams, there is no pleasure in the act, it is an instantaneous thing that doesn’t even give you relief on waking. It is a cruel sleep, one that robs you of the beauty of being awake and engaging. This sleep merely buys you a few hours extra to see the evening and feed yourself. A second sleep becomes the norm and not in a Mediterranean trendy way.

I fight it. Every day. Every. Fucking. Day. I can’t actually remember what it feels like to be vibrant. I watch people with energy and enthusiasm and it is a truly foreign concept. Cynicism has become my natural state, it helps me defend and define my inertia, it is the coat I wear to excuse my sarcastic intonation and inflexions which are spawned entirely from the deep tiredness and lingering melancholy that my damaged brain cells create. My inability to retain knowledge becomes embarrassingly apparent. I’ve started to avoid discussing things that require explanation, I hide from visitors in case they ask questions or advice. I walk round my workplace mentally trying to flex my memory on things and fail, sometimes I stand in front of things, swearing to myself because the information I am looking for no longer exists.. anywhere. At least I remember the words; ‘Fuck it”.

As the day continues from morning into afternoon, my leg muscles become more and more exhausted. A feeling of lactic acid build up permeates my thigh and calf muscles. Only bloody mindedness keeps me moving them. I am a stubborn fucker. I have a natural tendency to grit my teeth. I have worn my molars to stumps and my jaw clicks in its socket. I rarely notice any more. I’m the hardest soft bastard I know. I’m a brave absolute chicken shit. I’m a strong weakling. I am as healthy and as unhealthy as every other fucker on the planet. I make as many excuses as possible to not make an excuse. I cringe at my own self pitying, but once in a while I’ll do it anyway.. Once in a while, when the damaged neurons overwhelm my own ability to repair, or work round them, I will take a deep breath of momentary despair and apathy.. then I’ll pull my head out of my arse again and keep doing things… because it could be worse… it can always be worse… there is no comfort in that. Just a soundbite to keep you feeling like a twat… I shrug off my own loathing and stand momentarily naked and flaccid before my own uncaring Id…

“Put your fucking jacket on” it says.

“You’ve got shit to do”.