The depth of my illness has not yet reached it’s nadir, I don’t think - and yet, could I feel much worse?
Chances are - not. At least, that is my hope.
I could have made a slightly, less feeble effort earlier to write something here - but I was far too engaged in trying to ignore the symptoms of this malady and trying to carry on with the day to the best of my ability; as if I were whole - which I am not.
There’s something about placing one’s illness in a previous period, simply through the construct of language, that lends itself to utter despair and the possibility of it being ‘grave’, in the very worst sense of the word.
Yes, I know - I have a cold - or the flu - or some minor respiratory ailment - but it doesn’t work as well on the page unless one calls forth the gremlins of ill health and begs their assistance in describing what is most likely a simple, passing malady - without their aid, where would Camille be? Or Mimi? Or for that matter poor Helen Burns, I ask you!? And let us not even mention Catherine of Wuthering Heights - but, need I say more?
The simple fact is: I am ill. This is the best I can produce given my current condition.
Excuse - yes, it may be - but a valid one, nonetheless.
I must retire now as I think I feel a feinting spell coming on…
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