A fog is pervasive, it creeps in suddenly. And so thick, heavy. It's sneaky tendrils are far reaching and impossible to grasp. Even as you reach out to try and touch It with your mind, it merely condenses to nothingness on your fingers. It twists and spirals and disappears into the void.
While you numbly freeze up, surrounded by it very suddenly, like a silent crowd of ghosts pressing up against you at an empty train station. The train has departed but even that is misty and distant now, the horn sounding aomewhere in the darkening ether, everyone else chattering aboard it. While you stand coldly in the midst of the soundless gloomy press of ghosts, clutching at your bags and trying to decipher where the exit sign is through the pale murk.
This is brain fog. Suddenly it dims the corners of your brain's vision, gently and relentlessly obscures whatever thoughts you were previously effortlessly forming. It whispers possibilities like a charmed snake, then delicately pulls the strands of thought away silkily. To leave you, a foundling in the dumb.
It leaves you a spectator to a dense wall of soft white mental feedback loop, nothing coming forward to allow a pellucid thought to occur. Plunging your head into foam, sound and meaning temporarily lost.
That's a brain fog. A malady of old, an almost comforting horror spanning across generations of middle aged women, time immemorial.
A realisation that the tiny neurons and synapses and electricity, the chemicals and meat that make up our brains are at the whim of something we cannot control. A blanket that falls. And rises again. Making it all the more important to preserve the kernel, strip away unimportance, cut to the main scene, do it now, speak the words on the tip of the tongue.