Sick: Kinda.

Last week someone sneezed right in front of me. Now I’m [kinda] sick. I shamble around the office, looking for necessary hydration: a drop of water is an oasis. It couldn’t be any better. I trudge through papers and look for brrraaaaaiiii– a break: a little doodle here, a scrap of good line there. I would sometimes peek between the covers of the windows, looking at people walking on pavements, running on roads, chatting the while away until they reach their destinations.

The cold is a rusty anchor. I should’ve run this morning, but my throat burned and my body was a little heavier. I hate this feeling: when the phlegm becomes the sticky substance trapped on your sole, slowing you down from whatever objective you have, keeping you from touching the finish line.

——-

Remedy: a cup of tea with a teaspoon of honey; “twee” music; the smell of paper; the sound of the pen walking on the surface; the release of ink; jazz; a whirl of the fan; silence between texts: a smile; the confused look of birds as they land on the side of the window of the comfort room; people & people & children & people; a page turned; poetry between edges; a game of groups; her hand on mine; my hand on her palm; uneaten pieces of thick “chicharon bulaklak” (a.k.a. cholesterol flowers of death); trapped by the rain; stopped time; a broken watch

——-

The slice of bread given to me tasted like soap. I washed it away and expected a foam on my mouth, or a burp of bubbles. I only got dizzy. Meh.

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