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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| Some days, my writing feels like déjà vu wearing a disguise. I’ll open a document, start typing, and somewhere between the third paragraph and a sip of lukewarm coffee, I realize—I’ve been here before. Not metaphorically. Literally. I already wrote this story. The plot? Familiar. The phrasing? Suspiciously mine. The twist? I forgot it existed. That’s the curse and comedy of brain fog. It’s like living in reruns without knowing what season you’re in. I can’t remember last week today, and sometimes not even yesterday this afternoon. But I keep writing, because maybe that’s how I find my way back to myself—one forgotten story at a time. Still, there’s a strange comfort in rediscovering my own words. It’s like meeting an old friend who reminds me who I was when I wrote them. Maybe that’s the point—not remembering everything, but rewriting enough to stay found. |
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