It sneaked up in gentle fashion, resembling a change of seasons. From belonging to the winds, roaring along, to the place of stillness so decided, that feeling stuck became a life.
There was no joy in previous joys and no rhythm in the ticking of a clock. Hideaways were there no longer. Resistance lurked in striving not to resist and, burdened with contemplation, I fell ill. Once deep in the ground and tied to the limit, I stumbled across crumbs of relief.
Softly as it came, many moons behind time, a fading of the fog revealed that the cycle was complete. And I found that nothing was wrong with the world.
It was my own skin I had outgrown.