It was 2pm. Then it was 2:47pm. The forty-seven minutes between are completely gone. Not misplaced - gone. I have no account of them, no half-memory, no vague sense of what I was thinking. I must have been at my desk. My coffee was still there, barely touched and gone cold. My hands were probably moving. But where I was, I cannot say. The clock jumped and I came back cold.

This has been happening more. Not every day, but enough that I've noticed the pattern. A kind of background absence that passes through the afternoon and leaves no record. I worry about what it means - whether I'm exhausted or dissociated or just so thinly spread across everything that I've stopped being fully in any one place. Forty-seven minutes of my life, gone, and I wouldn't have known if I hadn't looked at the clock. How many gaps are in your days that you don't catch because you aren't counting?