April 7th, 2002. - 9:03 p.m.

Today, exaggeration, and self-scolding

Today feels like an auburn fall day ought to feel. The light through a golden filter. The light wind a harbinger for a coming frost. But no, it is merely early spring, lacking its scent of earth and general greenness. (I insist that green is an odour as much as it is any of its other meanings.)

I look like a coma victim, just awakening for the first time in years. That vacant non-directional stare, unfocused. Clothing pulled together purely for comfort (gasp!). Uncomprehending the time that has passed while comatose, while under, while the brain induced dormancy.

This is called exaggerating. It has only been six days. Really now, you are too much. It could have been less, if you only dragged your lazy, stubborn self to the doctor. A doctor, any doctor. But no, you insisted on remaining ill. You insisted that the virus take a full trip of your blood vessel system, visit every cell along the way unencumbered. You insisted upon it, so you could theorize and fixate on physical suffering. So you could be reminded of your mortality, to gain some type of fresh perspective in a morbid way. While you still could spend a week in bed without responsibilities. Did you get it? This fresh perspective you were so willing to �suffer� for? Or did you just waste another week of your sordid Frankenstein brand of youth?

Oh, shut up. Honestly now.

N.

�