Moments unfocused

There are moments in my life where things become unfocused. My steps clumsy and my direction aimless. I am moving, my legs are tired, but the sense of progress is invisible.

An object of my desire is in the distance somewhere in front of me but its edges are hazy. Like a faulty camera lens, the autofocus oscillates back and forth, varying the degrees of blur but never arriving at an image worth snapping.
Periods like dilate my sense of time. A day lost staring at a computer screen feels like a month curled up in a white room where day and night cannot be observed.

Then the picture comes into focus. The hazy vision ahead becomes clear, tangible and attainable all at once. Why this change? I am not sure, but I forgo the analysis to reach out with vigour and grab onto the clarity.

Just as I close my fist around it, a sense of dread refills my heart. There’s a physiological dissonance familiar to any child who was excited to pick up the large rock they spotted on the beach only to discover it was a sandstone as they overexert their arm. I didn’t need to open my fist to know it was gone, but my hope necessitates that I unfurl my fingers only to find nothing.

Some time later, I awaken once more. Good morning or good afternoon or good night I say to the white, borderless room. Is it yesterday? Tomorrow? I stare ahead at a fuzzy image, praying between each infinite blink that it sharpens before my eyes open. And it doesn’t. And it doesn’t. And it does...

Seconds or years later, my arm has reached out and grabbed onto it for dear life. As my hand turns and my fingers begin to unfurl, I take a breath and absorb the familiar rush of hope before I open my eyes.