Bleached

Migraine. The light. Head pounds. In the sun, I squint, feel a feverish sweat break out. The baseball cap to shade my head feels agonisingly tight. As though it is the steel strap around my head that's causing all this pain.

The world is hard and white. There's no comfort or softness in it. A world bleached of all kindness. Now, survival really is a battle.

Chaff, stubble, cracked earth. Dust blows behind the baler. The sky beats down like a hammer. Like one of those things they use to break up concrete.

In this pain, sight, sound, smell, all are unpleasant, potentially damaging.

Pain so familiar. It started when I was eight or nine. I had to take strong painkillers to school, just in case.

I think that water will ease it. Or tea. Something to eat? A piss. A walk. A lie down. Nothing makes any difference. It goes when it chooses to go. Just as it came when it chose to come.

The pain varies. The constellation may be a ring as if around the top of my head, or behind my ears with a sharper pounding, that's like the most aggressive "prickling" you can imagine. Sometimes my ears ring. My neck feels rigid. Then there's the tension behind my shoulders. The nausea. The light-headedness. The sense of far too much demanding my attention so it's hard to focus on anything other than this. This pain that has me in its grip.

A specimen, caught in the vice of migraine in a world bleached of comfort.