The Swell That Must Break

Been in bed too long, not sleeping, doing little or nothing but rolling over.

The sheets are orange and the walls are blue. It is a Good Thing, like someone paying attention to order and not being timid.

Sick, as a state, is near to losing-it. You have to be careful. Reality shifts with the up and down of sweat, cascading against the sides of your body. Your body which becomes a ship and becomes its own sea, driving hard from the palm of the wind.

It gets lonely here. Only enough room in the boat for one, only one lifejacket. And who would you wish to inflict this on, anyway? what company to invite on a journey of discomfort and your own dried stink against your skin. A storm battering against the window–after your soul or your faith or maybe just the change in your pockets. Better not to find out.

Outside the door of my bedroom, the family is quieting. The baby will have been asleep now for several hours and the teenager is no doubt on the enormous internet social network/privacy violator that shall not be named, even by those of us so afflicted. Sick is a shut-in, next door crazy. If only you could touch something, right? The temperature of a cold raindrop or warm cheek. Proof that you are not lost after all.

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