pharmaceuticals

 Occasionally, there is not wish to write at all. There is an aversion to it. "What about?" is one of the questions asked. "Why?" is another one of those questions. They are all questions that seem to both hope and fear the answer, that on the one hand the writing of this blog is pointless and should therefore be stopped, and the other that in itself it has become a thing almost alive and to stop would be a wounding and never to start again would destroy it. There is no proof that it is of no value, even though the thought that it is of any value is likely wishful thinking

Two old glass darkroom filters in a package fall to the floor. There is a the crunching sound of glass breaking.

Fetch the dustpan, the brush. Carefully clear up the fragments and splinters on the floor, sweeping them into a dustpan. Wrap it all up in an old newspaper fetched from downstairs, and seal the package, and, again downstairs, put the whole thing into the waste bin for collection whenever the bin men turn up again.

Upstairs again, tidy the things into the shelves. Behaviour is strange today, yesterdays panicky struggle with what seems a cloud in the mind has turned into an interested tactile  probing of the things insided the cloud. It is like trying to divulge the contents of a parcel by squeezing the outside and rattling it.

It is sad about the filters, but it is no great loss, they were not to be used for anything anyway.

Taking the two pills yesterday may have been silly, one should not experiment with pharmaceuticals.