Anytime I get sick, I feel like a slug stuck in syrup. Im vulnerable and weak, but there is a sweetness to it. There are always a million things i need to get done and illness is never conveniently scheduled. Maybe it’s the return to thick air; a contrast with the salty breeze of the beach. Maybe it’s the worry in waiting for news about the future. Maybe its the full throttle pace of this life, speeding forward with little reprieve. Sickness is a stop sign – bright and red. A demand. Anytime I am still, I am found gross. A mess of mucosa. Hopefully i fully recover and feel better soon.

Get sick — stuck

There is sweetness to it

A return to thick air

The breeze

It’s full throttle pace

Speeding with little reprieve

Sickness — a stop sign

A demand

Gross

A mess I fully feel.