I have been away.
I am not sure where, but I went to bed one night and woke up three and a half months later. Perhaps “returned” might be a better word. I am not certain.
There are fleeting memories of white lights, voices from across the room, yet emanating from right beside me, the feeling of movement, rapid acceleration and deceleration. Sounds.
I know that once I called out:
I recall a response, but the content and import now escapes me.
Yeats’ poem, The Second Coming, seems to resonate through me, hour after hour, minute after minute. The words, the lines, verse flow across my consciousness like mercury in a bowl.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
My room, the curtains drawn, the the bedside table drawer remains a quarter open, my room remains the same.