The Gravity Beneath My Skin

 The day my body abandoned me.

It starts not with silence, but with interference — a faint hum behind my eyes, a soft snow drifting through thought. Words I reach for scatter before they form. The cursor blinks. The mind stutters. Snap. Blank. Lost.

At first, I blame fatigue. Blue light. Coffee. Deadlines. But the gaps widen. Sentences thin out, dissolve mid-air. Memory flickers — names, numbers, context — each slipping just out of reach. I stare at the same paragraph for hours, unable to recall what I was trying to say. Blink. Empty.

Days become loops. I wake already lagging behind myself. Each task feels encoded in another language. Typing, reading, deciding — all require translation. My brain is both conductor and interference, signalling and jamming itself at once. Thought becomes echo, then blur. Pulse stutters. Cortisol hums beneath the skin. Neural circuits stretch too thin.

There’s a hum to everything — fluorescent, neural, relentless. The fridge, the street, the inbox — all merged into a single field of sound. My eyes track movement, but comprehension trails seconds behind. I nod through conversations, hoping the delay isn’t visible. Mid-sentence, I forget the thread. Mid-step, I forget the reason. The mind becomes topography — plateaus of clarity interrupted by sudden whiteouts.

Nights are a riot of static light. Dreams fragment like corrupted files. I wake with echoes of unfinished thoughts, half-remembered words suspended between consciousness and oblivion. Even silence hisses — an electrical awareness that thinking itself might fail. Snap. Pulse skips. Eyes twitch.

Doctors find nothing wrong. Bloods clean. Scans clear. “You’re just tired.” Rest feels like drowning. Sleep offers no restart. The noise travels inward.

I begin cataloguing distortions — skipped thoughts, time slippages, frozen focus. I measure caffeine, light, hydration, breath. I become archivist of my own malfunction. Some days the signal steadies; others, the interference wins.

Pattern emerges through persistence. The hum rises when I push too long, fades when I pause. I learn to negotiate, to recalibrate. Less input. Slower output. Short walks. Stillness between tasks. Awareness as antidote. Observation leads to response. Micro-adjustments accumulate.

The mind may not be broken, just overloaded — an engine burning too clean for too long. And in that recognition, there’s power. To listen before the circuits spark. To act before cognition erodes.

The hum never leaves completely. It lingers — soft, spectral, a reminder that thought is mortal too. But now I can hear beneath it — the pulse of recovery, the signal waiting to return.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory
Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use.

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