I've been sick. Hellishly sore throat. Mild temperature.
Muddled through. It's going around.
But.
I hate being sick.
I hate the loss of control.
I hate coughing so much I pull a muscle.
I hate the feeling that I can't quite swallow.
That my progress ebbs and flows and when I feel I have a good day it is gone by evening when I can barely speak.
Did I mention I hate being sick?
There's a feeling of being trapped inside something you can't control and didn't ask for and don't like.
There's a brisk perception that all solid objects are waiting for you to close your eyes so they can turn into liquids and drip down into messy puddles on the floor.
And then there's always a single song that pops up all over the place, that is playing on every radio station you happen across in your feverish state.
The good news is I'm almost completely better after nearly a week.
The silence in the early morning, buzzes and crackles
Static electricity conveying too much possibility and not enough sleep
Too many secrets sent out into the night air
Cold and ripe, waiting for answers that never come
Hoping for sleep that pushes the possible aside
Leaving behind what was
What is
And what will be.
But the night doesn’t listen.
The night whispers desperate truths through the breezes
Calls out in silent protest that you feel
That you feel only when it buzzes
Only when it rings
Only when the first probing prongs of daybreak are safely in the future
It’s the darkness that calls us
The darkness that fills us with dark futures
That seem light only in darkness and dark in the day.
“But what if that’s all reversed?” the night whispers.
And dares you to listen.
-- Early morning, The Netherlands/Belgium, 2 May 2015
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