Saturday, April 30, 2005
Listless
Resting at home with a fever and an upper respiratory tract infection is one thing.
Being on call with one is a whole different kettle of fish.
Difficult to walk. Leaden feet, one, two. One. as you feel the life draining slowly out of you.
In the aftermath, something is broken. Perhaps just the fever, or perhaps not - paracetamol makes it difficult to be certain... perhaps the diaphoresis is all drug induced.
For a moment there, turning the corner and feeling the world spin, it felt so tempting to just cave in and let the world fall over, let yourself fall to the ground in rest.
For a moment now, one feels how easy it would be to just... let something slip, and stare out the corner of your eye, slightly obliquely, into nothing. Forever.
It's probably just the cytokines talking. This isn't me, this isn't the person who used to live in london once upon a time, being beaten gradually into submission. Too tired to fight.
Anhedonia sets in. Even random wandering swathes on the plains of black and whites - the ivories don't sate the desire... for what, exactly?
Not a woman, not one from the past, tall, gangly and sparkling - nor the random women passing by once in a while - that medical HO is soooo cuuute...
not food, everything has lost its scent.
Not money, not random, aimless, pointless entertainment.
Not sleep either, apparently, although the screaming back muscles stiff as a board beg to differ.
Then what?
Being on call with one is a whole different kettle of fish.
Difficult to walk. Leaden feet, one, two. One. as you feel the life draining slowly out of you.
In the aftermath, something is broken. Perhaps just the fever, or perhaps not - paracetamol makes it difficult to be certain... perhaps the diaphoresis is all drug induced.
For a moment there, turning the corner and feeling the world spin, it felt so tempting to just cave in and let the world fall over, let yourself fall to the ground in rest.
For a moment now, one feels how easy it would be to just... let something slip, and stare out the corner of your eye, slightly obliquely, into nothing. Forever.
It's probably just the cytokines talking. This isn't me, this isn't the person who used to live in london once upon a time, being beaten gradually into submission. Too tired to fight.
Anhedonia sets in. Even random wandering swathes on the plains of black and whites - the ivories don't sate the desire... for what, exactly?
Not a woman, not one from the past, tall, gangly and sparkling - nor the random women passing by once in a while - that medical HO is soooo cuuute...
not food, everything has lost its scent.
Not money, not random, aimless, pointless entertainment.
Not sleep either, apparently, although the screaming back muscles stiff as a board beg to differ.
Then what?
