I’ll say one thing about being sick for two weeks: it makes me wish I hadn’t been.
That should go without saying, right? Who, even in their wrong mind, wants to be ill, unfocused, coughing, snot-filled, and basicaly a gunky worm of lifelessness? It’s not like I needed the break from a hectic work schedule, or am in love with some gorgeous doctor, or missed sucking down cough drops as if they were cherry flavored sacrements. I just got a cold, started to get better, stayed up until 6am (ah, but worth it) got worse again, finally got to the point where I felt like the right side of my head was being held underwater (“half a Beethoven”, I commented) and finally saw my nice but decidedly male doctor who has me pumping three kinds of drugs into my body.
The next morning, I can hear again!
There are two senses, or body parts, I’m afraid of losing. My hearing, and my hands. Without hearing, I can’t listen to music. The tunes in my head just wouldn’t suffice, I’ll tell you that for nothing. And without my hands, I can’t make things. Software, play guitar, write fiction. I have to touch the world, and listen to the songs that are plucked by both invisible and visible fingers.
Only a few more days of drugs. I’d better be better.
’Tis better to be better than to become the best, because the best can do no better, and their betters will best them.