Being ill is, above all a sensual thing. Being reminded of your own mortality, like never before, of the reflexes that died in my womb. It was a dreadful lesson that I've learnt. I tended to my body like a lover, promising in blind faith that all will be well.
Such luxurious peace— It was very much like getting possessed, you know Becoming painfully aware of nothing but yourself crooked in a crouch is the only way to stand, for it is too laborious even to stand straight. And the noise, the constant thumping of the heart. pulsations bleeching too much, too loud.
What do I know of health before this? Now it begs my attention like a serpent's hiss. Dissolving all but sense and solitude, gripping me into the lore of pure consciousness. Like a true predator, languishing over yet another sleepless night.