Writing from Within

Today, I cannot stand outside this thing and tell you what it looks like.

I am inside it.

Inside the fibro fog that softens the edges of thought.

Inside the heaviness that turns ordinary steps into quiet acts of courage.

People call it fatigue.

But fatigue sounds so small,

Like the need for an early night,

A need for an extra hour in bed.

This is something else.

This is a body that has forgotten how to be light.

A weighted blanket holding me down in thought and movement.

I search for words that hide like birds in the mist.

Where flew that line from in my head?

Even this poem has taken effort.

It has been gathered one thought,

One breath, one fragile thread at a time.

Perhaps that is why it feels so true.

I am not writing from the memory of the journey.

I am writing from the path itself.

And if my steps are slow today,

If I turn back,

If I rest awhile,

Please know...

I have not stopped.

I am simply finding my way through a landscape that few people can see.

Sally Somerton - Island Writer

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