Fibromyalgia fog

Deep, impenetrable fog suddenly descends

from the sea,

swirling like cotton-wool balls

pulled apart.

 

It slumps down in a chair,

wearily,

its sheer mass dragging it closer to the ground,

the seat fibres stretching and groaning under its weight.

 

Rumbling snores

signal there’s no chance of it moving soon.

 

I trudge on through murky, grey candyfloss to the shore.

The tide out; the only escape over the treacherous marshes.

 

Slow-mo squelching,

heaving each limb from the gelatinous bed

like unsuspecting fingers caught in superglue.

Legs tire as though Nordic walking through a swimming pool.

 

Those twinkling lights and familiar sounds of normality on the mainland

an unattainable goal in the distance.

 

The cold, soft mud then opens up, sucking me inwards

like a snake’s mouth widening to engulf its prey,

gripping my body in a sleepy inertia.

 

And with one gulp,

I’m gone.

 

 

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