Sick

Roll upon roll of ickiness, sickness, blackness, veils of negativity that have shrouded my body and soul are rolled away, peeled away. Little by little. I can almost smell the scent of my soul again. Catch a glimpse of my energy in the corner of my eye.

Thick and sticky phlegm from my lungs… Out, out, out, month after month. Wanting to work, having to rest. I turn out uninspired stuff. Obliged to serve, to play my part, speak to my audience. When really, truly there is nothing to be said. No words in this mouth worth listening to. My ideas muddy as a pond.

In bed again. And again. Who am I when I’m not racing round, not doing or being? Not mindful or kind. That it seems requires motivation and energy. I’m nothing fun, profound or even pleasant. Dull, tiresome, moaning, cranky, bored. Infected with darkness and slime. Toxic. I am she who has nothing to give. She who demands and requires. She that lets you down.

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