Am I Dying?
It is apparent–apparent!–That my body is suffering through its own epic influenza. A disease we probably have no Latin name for. Is three weeks to long to be the flu? I would check Wikipedia, but my symptoms prevent me from the extraneous and damning exercise of clicking open another tab. Though, I think its fair to judge “being too tired to check Wikipedia for symptoms” is symptom of the flu itself.
My body is wracked with phantom pains and aches, and memories of other places I have never been. I wrote down a fictional memoir last night, well into the throws of my debilitated passion. Realizing I was nothing but a medium for the sickness, I wrote about a page of foreign language before realizing I had no pen, no paper, and that my desk was nothing but a bed sheet and a finger.
I have felt like shit for the last few weeks, and my casual but firm grip on the English language has been thrown off course into the horse-bucked storm of “I don’t feel good.”
I write. When possible, if not altogether plausible, I string words and thoughts together like strands of pearls. Some of them glisten, others are tangled. My pearl stringing workshop is, certainly, in disarray, but I still sit here and tinker. Smiling at moments no one else will ever know.
I’ve made progress actually. It is very exciting when it works. Like water bumping over rocks in a stream. This is how this scene happens. These are the words that tell you the picture.
I will never tell you of which scene it was, or what pieces had changed. I will show you the blueprints–gladly!–but translating the Russian notes in the margin would only teach you the components, and I don’t want you to know how the rocket works. I want you to watch it pass the moon in silent wonder.
Unless it explodes. In that case, I am sorry. I will write another story.