It’s interesting to be ill. Not pleasant, per se, but interesting nonetheless. When you’re ill the barrier between mind and body is dissolved as an illusion - a wizard of oz behind the curtain. Irregular tingles, feelings of dizziness, all taking place in the mind but not consciously chosen.
My chest occasionally explodes with husky thick coughs. My brain pulsates with strange sensations. On arriving home I discover that I have a fever of 39 degrees. On learning this kind of information, I always remember biology lessons about how at certain temperatures the cells become denatured. The body is no longer efficient, it strains to continue the processes.
Of course, it would be a shame to die. I think about trying to get my affairs in order, weighing up what I have achieved in life - whether disappointment is something rational or just a state of perspective.
It always amazes me that people are so good at living. The heart, lungs, liver, kidney, stomach, brain - they all carry out their work unceasingly. This tremulous consciousness seems so pitifully weak in comparison - worrying about this and that when the body labours uncomplainingly.
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