You don't look like you've got a cold, she said, when I have cold I look terrible. I tried to explain the cold was two days ago, now it's chest-ways, the bit where it can get me and I have to call the ambulance while he just lies there passed out. Another story. My physiognomy hides it well, but I'm actually concentrating very hard, I'm a slave to the virus, my lungs are broke, I'm out of control.
Yesterday I was fine enough to get a haircut and drink whisky, today I woke up with a paltry whimper knowing I had to call in sick, but I also had to wait a few hours as it was only 5am. Sad pathetic lonely whimper. Nothing like an illness to smash your independence down to size. Dependence, someone to hang on, someone to remind you you're alive and rub your back and buy you caramel digestives, that's what an ill thing needs.
I'm angry now. I've missed two days of work, and a weekend of bank holiday revels will no doubt have to slide. I'm deeply sad about that, I didn't want to put life on hold, look how exciting it was, is, look, look at my plans and designs. Why is it fair that I'm separate from what I want? Then I think back to Sunday, Monday. A hanging dread of change where the colourful bits were blurs and I was looking for extraneous light.
Being ill, a time to slow down. A time to be angry at your body, see it communicating with your mind, see it lighting your soul. They're all connected, but it's easy to let the mind think it's the thing. It makes me appreciate things, that my eyes mostly sparkle, my feet have a rhythm, and words are (hopefully) a lot more inspired by these ones. Maybe the recalibration needed a physical jar, to jolt everything into step. I know I'm not well when I'm neither laughing or twirling, physical outcomes married from the mind and soul in a happy accident.