Waking up, twisted, arms wrapped and half numb, body like a pier after a rough storm., steel bent by greater forces. Wednesday. Blood on the pillow. More blood than yesterday, I still don’t know where I’ve been bleeding from. Pillows make a circuit around the bed over night so any guess is as good as none.
I unravel myself and pile onto my feet. Sprung up and about. It’s noon. Kung fu in fifteen minutes, don’t think I’ll make it. Sense of duty shirked the weight in my shoulders returns. Since monday I’ve felt as if there were a rope cutting through my right trapezius, slicing me the way one slices a slab of clay with a wire, some pulled muscle trying to sever me sideways. Now, since there’s no kung fu, I can admit I still feel terrible.
Yesterday, tuesday, I made it to yoga and then spent the rest of the day thirsty. No slaking my thirst no matter how much I drank. Afraid to drink more for fear of blood thinned heart attacks. I’d had heat exhaustion monday, barely made it to the sixty-fifth minute on the elliptical, only made it to kung fu thereafter by skipping any down time and not giving myself the opportunity to skip. Inertia coast.
Today, my left eye doesn’t see straight. Bloodshot, pink in the mirror, red on the skin. Shorter sighted than usual, as oft as not left half closed.
Somewhat stoned on the forth medication taken in an attempt to regain sight and what little breathing the scarring and regular allergies have left me, I listen to Royal Blood‘s eponymous first album and enjoy a temporary relief from the petty commonality of physical ailments by escaping into the less solid world of thought and logos.
This the fifth time I’ve listened to the album in its entirety. It’s a good record. Royal Blood is a bit like the successful compromise between Queens of the Stone Age and The White Stripes.
I don’t like being ill, but I do like variety, I like things that are merely different merely because they are different. As such, I don’t like the semi-blindness of my left eye or the imprecision of hand muscles or the air-sucking fatigue, but when I sit and needn’t face directly any one of those, I enjoy feeling differently than I normally do. Like the day before a full cold, the night when one is stoned on brain-wrapped stupid and just feels other instead of ill. Like being dehydrated in a desert, like being cold after a long summer. Not good for its own sake, just good for a difference.
Different is always good. Different forces adaptation, forces growth, in muscles or mind. Experience doesn’t come from complacency or lack of adventurousness. In between the times I lament missing kung fu and the gym and feeling the air like I’m under water, I can enjoy the oddness of this set of sensations.
Something new to explore.
More fodder for the ink.