Once. If you remember to make your tea.

The world feels like fistfuls of clouds sometimes, as if I’m not really here. I can look at a report, but my eyes will suddenly not be looking at it at all, and I have to grasp back onto it to remember where I am. What was I doing with this information again? Why was I reading it? … Oh! That’s right.

It’s not until I get up to head to the bathroom or grab a snack or jacket that I realise I forgot the kettle. I tap it. It’s warm now. How long had I forgotten it for? I click it back on and head back to my desk.

I’m shuffling through websites, doing research, gathering data. Something pops up, an alert or reminder, and I dismiss it. But what was I doing amongst all of these open tabs again? Which window was I on? Was this what I was doing? No, I already did that. It’s a couple of clicks and I feel that sense of lightness again, as if I’m fading. I have to literally shake myself to ground myself, to myself from disappearing.

It’s almost a dream-like feeling. Where I just gradually forget about what happened earlier and follow the trail that keeps emerging under my feet. I start to worry that it might be more serious, but try to dismiss those anxieties with claims that perhaps I don’t have enough of a particular something in my diet?

I get up and talk to the person on the other side of the room and we chat for a moment as I try to un-knot my thoughts with them. I feel a bit more focused, and so I sit back down at my desk. And then I see my empty mug, still waiting for me to take it back to the kitchen. Where I have to boil the kettle again.

But. With the mug no longer on my desk, I forget again. By the time I wrap up work and head into the kitchen and see the empty mug and warm kettle again, I give up. I’ll have something else.