The number “2” on the calendar doesn’t look as impressive or daunting as the “1” did yesterday. I have accepted this new year; already, the feeling of inevitability. No turning back. Here we are. 2014.
I am still sick. Chest and throat dry, head very warm. Sweaty (fresh sweat upon dried) and ungainly. Full of flu.
The cough arrives abruptly, dies quickly; it comes from deep within, is loud and harsh. It’s a real sound, painful, semi-violent in its inevitability, driven by an honesty I haven’t heard in my words for a long time. This hacking is beyond my control; it is beyond politeness. I am no one but myself when I cough. I am afraid of this cough. It exists beyond reason.
I feel solid, not yet fat. I eat small amounts of healthy food in moderation, and large amounts of unhealthy food with abandon. Somehow this has been working. But I think my grace period is running out. I fear I am ultimately resistant to change even if part of me craves it. Sadness is inevitably followed by cake, as is joy. What hope do I have outside of elastic-waist pants?
I decided to write a blog this year. I have vague reasons: a place to collect musings about consistency and faith. The specter of an ever-looming audience whom I need to consider when the yammering starts. Perhaps these invisible readers will help me rein my thoughts.
Mostly, I’ve been feeling cobwebs gather in my brain; I need to dust up there; here’s the place for whatever falls from the rafters.
Here is where I will reassemble.