I have spent the last week breathing through my mouth.
It’s very unhygienic and I do not recommend it. I don’t know from whence this cold came from but it came with a bang. Like an avalanche. Like that tiny rock you find in your ndengu. Or one of those government laws that just slap you in the face. What am I supposed to do with all these straws and these 10 billion shillings?
Anyway, my money troubles aside, I’ve been nursing a cold.
That’s a funny phrase, isn’t it? Nursing a cold. Does that mean that I’m actually taking care of this illness? Making it stronger until one day it becomes sentient and detaches from me but from my nose in snot form. And there will be two versions of me but one will be made of flesh, the other of mucous. Then mucous-me will want to take over the world. Flesh-me will just be here blogging about it.
So, I’ve been nursing a cold.
I remember when I could breathe. Those memories haunt me day and night. I don’t know if I have picked up snoring but Eve hasn’t complained. In fact, she seems happy. She doesn’t even have any symptoms of this flu. I can just see her walking barefoot on those freezing tiles; going outside without a sweater; washing her hands with cold water. Is she for real? Can I report her to her mother?
I suppose that I should be happy that Jesus has been good to her, healthwise. But I wonder why He let me get sick.
“I don’t get sick, Lord. Did we not have a deal? That’s supposed to be me walking barefoot on those tiles. Socks suck!”
But oh, that’s not all. Nope. The weather suddenly changed too.
First came the wind. It blew in ferociously, blowing away the dead leaves, chaff and the last bit of health I had. Then came the fog. It rolled in over the hills, through the valleys and brought a chill into my bones. Then came the rain. I actually like the rain, although now I had to dress up like an Inuit (or a wildling).
Where am I going with this?
I don’t know. I’m sick. Or more accurately, I feel sick. Jesus took away sickness at the cross, right? (1 Peter 2:24). But before I start to feel well again, I’ll be here reading and writing ghost stories, waiting to breathe again.
Are you enjoying the stories, by the way? Do you like to be scared? Is my writing even scary? Perhaps you’d rather not read about evil makeup or a plane crash followed by a shark attack followed by the swift descent into hell? Or the other weird stuff I have in my drafts… Oh crap, I really am sick!