There is nothing glamorous about being sick. At least when it comes to the physical appearance of the one who has been seized by sickness. Maybe viruses, flu bugs, and other microbial invaders wear nice, palatial clothing where they come from. Maybe they dress up for balls and go to parties. Whatever their fashion predilections are, they have nothing to do with the wars they wage against the human body. The viral armada must wear army boots and chew tobacco as they march out to invade new territories.
A sickness comes suddenly, I find. It starts in the throat as a twitch, and then the next morning the entire body aches. If there is a fever in the morning, the ache and congestion is compounded by a desire to do nothing, be nothing. Nihilism lurks in the thoughts. The thoughts are pale simulacra, simulations of healthy thoughts. No desire. Do nothing. Be nothing. When the medicine finally works, there is a brief repose in the twilight ocean that exists behind the morphing mosaic of dreams. When the pale mind wakes up again, the weariness returns, and odd thoughts about the contours of the blanket return, and the wheezing, and coughing, and that unmistakable shitty feeling.
The body is not hermetically sealed. It has been cursed by the dictator, Time. It must eventually fade to black. It must catch the stray and rabid viruses that proliferate everywhere. But the body is still beautiful. A palace for the spirit. I just feel like complaining a little bit.
I watched quite a few violence-ridden movies while I was sick. "Platoon" was one. "City of God" was another. And I finished watching the first season of HBO's defunct show, "The Wire". Good show.
Now I am going to take my magic carpet to the moon. VRRROOOOMMM!!!
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