I am very disheartened. I am not sure if there is any other word for it. Well, of course there would be other words for it. Multitudes of words. A plethora. See? I can form words for that. But I cannot think of another word for this. I can no longer chance the abyss of my mind, no longer swim their cerulean depths, and it disheartens me. How disheartening. I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.

See, there was once a time in which I believed I could achieve something in one fell swoop. I thought I could write screenplays in a couple of sittings. I thought I could understand mathematical phenomena in a few minutes. I thought… I thought… oh, I thought! How treasured would that thought be now? What kind of treasure?

But now, I cannot even sit at work for a short period of time, let alone an extended. Nor stand, nor loll. I cannot. And if I could… if I forced myself, bones aching, heart screaming, submerging myself into the icy waters, swimming with ice, of a mind that was once womb-warm, amniotic; I would simply sit there, forcing, frozen, deadened, unable to think. I cannot. I cannot. I hate it. I hate mys— no. I am reluctant to say that. I cannot.

I take sour breaks. I take wonder freights. I take bower waits. I take mates. There are mates out there, I know, but they cannot slow the way I am. The way I've been. The way I see.

Is there a way to do anything? Anything at all? I almost cried today. I had nothing in me and yet I still felt like crying. I could do nothing. I used to be splendid and I can do nothing. I was wonderful. I possessed wonderful gifts. Amazing things. I was going to be marvelled at, but not let anyone marvel. That would have been my trademark. I used to be mysterious, but now I am isolated. Like the stereotypical spinster. Locked away from my husband, beyond the veil of marriage and of death. Where did my gifts go? Where did they go?

I had never really perceived them as gifts. I just thought of them as… there. A part of me. Something indispensable. What has happened to them now? Should I kill mys—

No. I cannot think that. I cannot. I cannot. It would be a line crossed.

But, when all is said and perhaps not done, of course, the fact remains. By fact, I state that loosely; I pride myself upon the sheaving of facts, but that leaves several points open to question. What really is fact? How can I strip it to its core essentials, to cut away the trails that unbalance my search, so that I may know precisely what remains? How can I know? How can I know? Why do I repeat myself? Is there any other way to fill the gap buzzing white in my mind, that blank space, that ooooooh nooooo what on earth shall I do? I doubt that I would even be able to find my way back to that research, that leafy branch of realisation with berries glistening like gems of knowledge - it nests in my mind somewhere - or more likely yet, floats free, coming apart from each other and mingling with other areas, nigh unrecoverable in this stagnant state of no-effort. Does it even exist anymore? How would I know that it exists anymore? Does it? Tell me! But how could I know? I don't know fact. I cannot access the branch of fact. Oh, no, please…

"Sherlock? You're moaning again."

I stop. It is simpler to do so when someone is present.

"Thank you," I respond, murmuring it into the leather of the couch. It would be less productive if he inquired into the facts of the matter, and although the notion of gratitude (or indeed emotion) seems void now, I conjure societal necessity. I would be grateful, therefore I provide evidence that I am. (There seems to be a part of me majorly comprised of 'would'. What would I be? What was I before? What would I do? I am no longer who I once was - who is really me - and I cannot be who I am - for I am who I once was. Sometimes, I look into the mirror and see only grey fog shrouding my face.)

"Why are you moaning?"

"I am… no longer grateful," I inform him, to strengthen the position that I am capable of some feeling. His voice is quite muffled, as is speaking through a wall, a faulty speaker. He may be a faulty speaker himself - I resolve to be more tolerant.

"You need to be more tolerant," he says, confirming my suspicions. "About yourself. You seem to be having a hard time. Why don't you just give yourself a break?"

"All… I have been doing… is taking breaks!" My words sound a bit acidic. I marvel at it marginally, as much I can manage (and draining myself further in the process, somehow); it is a pleasant surprise that even marginal marvelling is possible: a ghost of the marvelling I would have done. Would. Would have. I am.

But it is true. All I have been doing is taking breaks. One long, high, horrible -

I feel almost like crying. I am to cry. Am I to cry? I do not wish to cry. I have no pricks at the back of eyes. No lump in throat. None of the characteristic signs documented so naively in novels. There is merely an empty basin in my chest, and some tears collecting at the bottom, travelling together to the lowest point, gravity signing its statement. And they slide without resistance to my eyes. There is nothing to stop them. No pride, no dignity, no intellect. My entire mind is clogged empty of value, of meaning, and thus is my body. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot stop them. Oh, no, please…

"Sherlock? You're moaning again."

I stop. It is easier to do so when someone is present.

I am stressed, oh so stressed, and I haven't a clue why.

I have nought to do. No thoughts to think. My brain is the lowest capacity it has ever been. The solid mass residing in my head, even more solid now it is filled with dense fog, rather than the wonderful, gaslit highways racing around and through with no weight to speak of. If only I could speak of.

"A bit louder, Sherlock."

John is perched next to me. My eyes are open. They are taut open, now; it is as if several strings are pulling them high, until my eyelids cannot twitch or blink. My brain is tired, oh so tired, but my eyes are wide open. My brain is filled with heavy fog, but my eyes are clear enough. The room is still filled with cloud, but I can make out the tendrils. I can see their greyish folds moving and mixing, teasing each other; those tendrils, those swirls, right up until they lap over the shoulders and right-angle legs of the man. Yes, indeed, I realise; the man is sitting beside me. Some distance still exists between us; I suppose etiquette catches his chair legs from sliding too far along the carpet. But, a question, drained of all interest: why were my eyes drawn to the shaping, shifting fog, which coloured the scene the same grey, palette hues, bunkered at the edge of my line of sight (I cannot move my head; it is heavy; I cannot feel it much), when the man sat in front of me, affronting me, with clothes donning brighter colours, human presence drawing discomfort, dominant occupancy of perceived space? Why were my eyes drawn to the grey?

"Your… clothes… are loud enough," I croak out. Something is scratchy, impure. It sounds like it came through the opposite wall. Was it my voice? What is a voice? I cannot speak; I cannot speak what I wish; I cannot attach my brain to my mouth - the words simply spill out, and I learn what is said at approximately the same stage as everyone else. Me, the individual who learns all things valuable and necessary far before anyone else, far before the curtain has even risen! Me…

A small laugh. Or perhaps he shifted in his chair. Perhaps a chair leg caught on carpet and it huffed as he did. Perhaps both occurred. Perhaps they do not even share the same sound. I would not know. I cannot access… what I need. I need it. I need it back. Please…

I am stressed, oh so stressed, and I haven't a clue why. I thrive upon clues. I clue. It's a clue. A clue. But I haven't a clue. I have something I need to do… I need to do… it is as if there is something to be done, something that needs to be done, but I cannot bring myself to care, to be bothered. The fog, oh, the fog, external and internal… I cannot reach in and take passion, take intrigue, take what I need, oh, if only I could realise what is to be done, and if only I could carry it out with vigour, like old times!

"You've been like this for days. I'm worried."

Days. Old times. It feels like… old times. Not days. I am old. I feel… so old. Like my heart is so strained and withered, like leather being stretched too far until it develops little ripples and cracks, like beneath my fingers, the couch beneath my fingers, and I run my fingers over those ripples and cracks and I close my eyes. The strings have gone. They departed like vigour, like valiance, like vivacity. I am oh, so, tired, and oh, so, stressed, and my heart is not so much taut and trembling but making itself small among solid walls of pressure on all sides, making itself oh, so, small, so that it may not be crushed until it is taut, and trembling, and oh, so.

John is gone. Before my eyelids shutter into alignment, a symmetry made strange by all the disorder - perhaps they are not aligned; perhaps there is a crooked nature, a half-moon curvature, a lastly twitch generating a little dip here and there - it would figure - I noted one thing, one thing that does not need to be noted, for how else would I note it? How else would I, barred from my place, be able to realise it, however dimmed, however blurred it all may be? It is like the way the words dribble from my mouth; it is a reaction, a twitch; the last pitch of dying nerves. What I saw was the man, or, more specifically, his absence.

There is something in the air, I tasted, that seems to indicate that hours had passed. I am stressed. I am worn. How did hours pass in the space of a few seconds? I have things to do - things I need - how did hours pass, and how have I done nothing? I cannot. I cannot even move, and yet there is that tingling, nauseating mass lodged in my gut, sending signals into my chest, pulling the pressure around a little tighter with each contraction of muscle, and although I do not move, this mass does, it ripples and seethes, and my heart contracts around contracting muscle, and I cannot contract myself to move and stop and work the tightness and apprehension out, I cannot bunch myself around my stomach in an undignified ball to ease its leverage, I cannot, oh, so, cannot.

Why was my focal point on the fog? Why was it not on the man, working on perceiving him, working on something (but that I cannot do)? I would have seen something different, something, I need that, something different from all that hubbub and hustle and hassle, those terrible woes, why is that I cannot see the way to be, oh, the way to be? Is the fog so immediate and important to me, so dominant in this terrible, drastic circumstance, that my eyes are drawn to their corners to follow its movements rather than the still attentiveness of a man who… cares? Oh, I wish I could care. That man; he does not know what he possesses. If only I could care. One would name me self-absorbed, to claim this outlook. That I should be grateful for this stranger, whose periodic speaking and food-offering does little good. But this man! He does not know what he flaunts in my face (in fact, I am only now realising it, and a little flustered at that)! (I would have known at a glance, if I had been me, but the fog took that with the house.) If only I could care… oh, if only… not care in the simpering, whimpering, allegedly limbering way, but simply some vigour, some need tobother about something, and take myself to work. To place work someplace and then take myself there. Preferably within my mind. Please within my mind. I want to go home.