I've been sick with some kind of lung-filling, sinus-blocking, voice-thieving, muscle-crunching virus these last few days. I slept most of last week, wore filthy pajamas, drank water and tea and ate virtually nothing. My voice is taking little trembly steps back to normalcy-- I sound like Demi Moore. Sexy.
Time disappears when I'm sick. It's an odd thought that the world went on while I was in a fever-induced daze-- people went on trips, went to work, planned weddings, worked in their gardens, bought cars, shoveled snow, wrote poems, cooked food-- all while I laid on my couch, inert, sweating, shivering, miserable. I hate missing out on life when I'm sick.
You can only imagine what The Hovel looks like at this moment. I'm longing for spring, where I can open up my windows and welcome in some warm, sweet air. I'll wash my floors, take my curtains to the cleaners, throw out old papers and letters, and start again.
It's been a long, cold winter.