Stone cold feeling inside . . .
You want to talk but nothing comes out. Words move back and forth like so many mechanical pistons but where before there was laughter and love and a feeling of being alive, now a heavy silence ensues, a pressure bearing down on you. A sense of dissociation that isolates you from the flurry of healing well-meaning vistors prescribe amiably as they flutter in and out. You cannot locate yourself except in odd moments, brushing your teeth or walking through rain. People at the supermarket startle you as they bend over fruit bins, interrogating the produce. Does it really matter, finding an apple that isn't bruised?