Good news, the glass from my frontal lobe has travelled to my throat. I could not function with a burning forehead, a dizzying spell of pain located behind the eyebrows and pulsing out from there consistent throbbing of my heart beat isolating the blockage that causes the ache. A sore throat is more manageable yet difficult for nourishment. Nothing hard like potato chips today. I’ll eat astronaut food.
Boring topic, my sickness. I slept like a log on fire in a snowstorm. Alternating hot and cold, shivers through to the hypothermic dream of heat, where the mind lets go and the crevasse is no longer ice and snow, but a nice cozy cabin fire filled with spirits and friends and laughter.
Later that day, raw kombucha shot later, the glass dissolved and my vision regained a fragmented clarity, I imagine my body in a network of healing, like quick time lapse footage of wounds naturally mended, the scars on my hands suddenly sealed up in a flash by invisible sutures, invisible doctors, invisible hands. Inside of my body. My immunity seems to be a rather powerful one. If I can knock out the flu my girlfriend had for nearly two weeks in 48 hours. Good. I am giving my white blood cells artillery practice. I am testing my body for what it is capable of. I desire to live a passionate, involved life, and sick leaves just help inspire me to leap into existence when I resurface from the stupor.
That last sentence was murky. Let’s try again. When I resurface from this stupor my sick leave has caused, I will be greater inspired to leap passionately into existence. It is a break from reality but with a rational mind so eager to return, return to clarity and awareness and the physical strength and endurance of a young body. The break from reality wasn’t much more than shivering and moaning under the covers on the couch and drinking gallons of smoothies and tea. Some innate coddling sensation. Some preordained nurturing. Maybe it is a comfort to be helplessly alone, buried under blankets, head throbbing. But not alone, as I said before, I had my pain to keep my wits about me. A pain to make me squint, nothing exorbitant. Nothing galactic. Just some hammerin’ and chiselin’ before the front plate of my skull like a little work crew trying to figure out a mathematical proof.
I felt the sensation of resurfacing. I did not trust it.
Piano played simply at a distance, my dazed awareness can barely hold a tune, my hours wasted on a hospital bed, yet, oh my god, if I recover so fast, so fast, I will feel superhuman, and proud of my blood.