No, this is not a post about Virginia Woolf's essay.
This is about me- I've been sick since Saturday. Fever (I've never been hotter, at least over the past year). Runny and stuffy nose, which, as though that's not bad enough, became extremely painful after several blows. Trouble breathing, as a result. Sneezing. Bad, very bad cough (I've had a cough since, I don't know, December, which when bad was compared to the sounds of a chicken and which was about to disappear before I fell sick again on Saturday). Sore throat, as a result. A few times I was dizzy and thought I was about to faint (which reminds me, I've never fainted in my life, not even once); and a few times felt nauseated, but, having hardly eaten anything, had nothing to vomit up. My condition was a lot worsened yesterday, for whatever reasons- my whole body was in pain, as though every bone, every muscle, every fibre of my being was in pain. Not only so, I had a headache, and my feverish face became so red that I could hardly recognise myself in the mirror (I can, of course, I just don't like the idea that I really look like that).
All right, no worries, I'm a bit better now. Except that there's blood in my mucus, everything else seems to improve, in a few days I can be up and running again.
Only when I get sick do I remember how good it is to be well.
So much self-centredness in this post. Let's see. These days, I stayed home listening to love songs of the 80s, watching again Play It Again, Sam (starring that whiny, cynical Woody Allen, yes), following the elections in the US (and losing sleep over 1 question: why does Donald Trump keep winning?), playing Word Ladder and reading Moby-Dick. Let's talk about these.