I write in a haze. My senses dulled by medicine and illness, the two waging a war inside my sinuses, leaving beads of sweat on my brow and a runny nose.
It even takes hold of my mind, and I struggle to find anything more to express then the discomfort that I feel. The day is no longer bright, instead covered in grey clouds that hurt my eyes.
Like with cuts or cracked bones we forget to appreciate the maginificance of our bodies until they are broken. It leaves me dumbfounded, pushed off my daily life with violent strength, left groping in the dark to desperately find my way back.
Enough. I am writing simply of a cold, not a nightmare made into reality. I will take my medicine and drink my spiced tea. Tomorrow I will return, hoping to find more clarity then I have now.