Two thousand and twenty-two has very neatly transformed into the twilight zone for me, presenting circumstances sufficiently surreal to well deserve such a macabre moniker. My loss of speech is not terrible curse, the sudden lack of communication far outweighing any piffling vocalization angst.
I never had a pretty voice, my ears decidedly not missing the rendition, the loss of mental clarity does however pinch. I have always enjoyed precision in mutual understanding, the spoken word proving a surprising singular necessity on that count. Writing is far too easily misread, badly shared, or falsely interpreted, making the simplest message intolerably fragile.
A brain fog, the most obvious effect of both increased age and a cerebrovascular incident is inclined to make the concise usage of language, written and spake, problematic. Often highly irregular, on occasion bordering on the incomprehensible, communication becomes a constant battle between patient and carer, the only saving grace lashings of patience, as abundant as spring downpours.