Sometimes, the relaxing, couch potato-ing is nice.
But when you're sick, sick. Down to your toes, headache in your brow, nausea in stomach. When it's don't move, don't think, try to breathe normally: sick. That's never, ever enjoyable. On any level at all.
So I sit, trying to sleep, trying not to lose the contents of my stomach. Trying not to let my favorite things, my comforting memories, be tainted by the fog in my ill mind.
I think of things that haven't happened yet. Things, imaginings, I wish to come true. Things of a youthful dream. To travel. To traipse about the globe, collecting words and capturing moments.
So here's to that dream, that sweet imaging. That blip of impossibility on my bucket list.
reading: american poetry: the nineteen century, vol. 2 by john hollander --- watching: bones
