It started two days ago. My throat was sore and dry, where it hurt to drink water. I figured I woke up, dehydrated, and my own stupidity was the source of my woes. So I drank and I drank and I drank some more. Water, of course. Though Jack makes great cough syrup.
I thought nothing of it, as it passed by with haste, and left me there, happily oblivious to the true devious nature of this sore throat. Until the following morning.
At this point, my brother, his entire family, and my coworker have all been sick with the same thing. I’ve spent a lot of time with all of them. When I woke up the following morning, I had the sniffles, my left sinus could be felt as fluids drained and sloshed about, building up until it was painful, and clogging my ear on that side. The pressure became so bad that behind my eye felt like a small creature was trying to pop the orb out of its socket.
I told my coworker and friend about this, and he told me that’s how it started for him. Sore throat for a day, and then the worst head cold he ever had. It would be dreadful. My brother had been going on two weeks of this abomination, and now I was to discover I could have the ailment they suffered under.
I drove to my brother’s, where we played board games about the zombie apocalypse, and it only got worse. My eyes teared regularly and my nose, though nothing would come out, felt like it was filled to burst. The pain wracked me and I cried out, “Is there no relief from this suffering? Could this be one of the plagues which ends the world?” But there was no answer.
During this illness, I was forced to not work out. I debated not writing, but when I looked at the pages, I knew in my being that I had to put the words down. I knew I had to write with abandon, or the words would die within my soul and there would be no solace for my literary heart. So I wrote.
This morning, I’m feeling relatively better. There are still the sniffles, but at the end of the day I think I just had a weird sinuses thing. That or it’s from finally cleaning my bathroom. What I do know is what I wrote the past two days is refuse. I don’t need to read it. I knew it while I was writing it.
However, more important than writing detritus (not sure I’m using this right, but I’m in full on thesaurus mode), I wrote. I still hammered out around 3000 words a day, the plot is progressing, and I even, in my illness-invoked delirium, realized that some of my chapters were out of place. While I thought I had finished part two of my three act story, there is still one more chapter to conjure.
Today I am still stuffed up. My ears feel a little thick. But overall I’m feeling rather delightful and inspired. I drive home today after an amazing couple days with my brother and his friends at his house. We played a game called Zombicide, and I wrote as a mad man would. Tomorrow, if the malady that haunts me lets up at the pace it has been, I work out, write, clean, and cook, for I am man, and the world will fear my might.
Oh, and I’ll catch Pokemon….
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