Monday, July 16


I have a feeling I still lack platelets. The heaviness that had long accompanied my movements is nothing new, but dengue, which made me lose some weight, feels like it instead inserted a seven-pound bowling ball into my core. It is something that is hard to explain except in literal terms, mainly because the appetite has been back and, save for a new fear of drizzles and mosquitoes, I would like to think I am (relatively) healthy again. Belatedly, I am just happy to not be connected to an IV bag and feeling like a pin cushion every morning because of all the blood tests. Hospitals are grim places when you're alone, which you have to be at some point, in order to appreciate the gravity of, well, life, and teetering solitarily on its edge. I have no groundbreaking epiphanies about being sick except the usual variety that being bedridden (with a lovely, lovely view of the hospital parking lot) brings. That is, I am actually afraid to die, art is unable to console, and really, I need to get fucking health insurance soon.