Fog

I spend my days in a fog-
gently the mist clouds my facilities.

It's a welcome fog.
I don't want to think anymore.
there are too many things-
too many banshees on my windowsill.

When the fog lifts,
I am more disorientated,
gasping for breath in the clean air.

My head is not accoustomed to noise
such as this,
this life,
these problems,
the questions of:
What do I do now?
Where are we going?
Or, scariest of them all:
Am I happy?

So when the fog rolls back in,
I am grateful.
I pull it around my breast like a security blanket.

When you have a brain such as mine,
a curse seems very much like a blessing.