what do they know anyway

Disrupted, jarred, I surface from the pages of my book to look up at the face in front of me, the expectant eyes awaiting a reply. I am vaguely aware that I know this person and can understand the individual words spoken to me, but this face and these words have no context in my mind. (I inhabit the world of the book; its conversations are my memories, its actions are my movements)

I reply instinctually with small, tentatively affirmative responses, ones that could answer any question. I gain precious moments of re-awareness and the inquisitive face begins to register. The world of the book cracks and fades around me, dissolving into the blandly-white walls of the lunchroom. Painful, disorienting, but I have to come back. I am dawning into the tangible world again. I am at work.