My minds feels as though it's wrapped in crushed velvet, a fabric I've always associated with a discreet form of violence because when I touch it the wrong way, go against the grain, each thread attacks my finger like a dull arrow shot from too far away. I'm of the opinion that a boa constrictor could do damaging things with crushed velvet if it found a way to make its threads sharp.
The layer allows my thoughts to float and mute themselves: my words are slow and my motions diverted. I have to work just a little harder than usual to do usual things. My alarms are in pairs, my coffees in trios, my spills anticipated, my knees permanently bruised. Yet, nothing is out of place. My hair and teeth are brushed, my face and sheets washed, my coffee and bed made. The bills are paid, the week is planned, checks signed, groceries bought, schedule adhered to. The routine is set, and I am not off-track, off-beat or off-kilter. But Ms. Clavel with her French accent and her habit is tearing through my veins, fretting about nothing concrete, muttering her catch-phrase.
You're right, madame, something is not right. My mind is not held hostage by unfinished thoughts. They seem to be, quite obstinately, jointly hosting tea parties, getting comfortable with staying somewhere before complete.
Dear brain, things are about to get wildly uncomfortable.