I’m Seeing Things
My thoughts seem buried underground. Perhaps it is this pestilential cold that ever lingers in my chest. Or the constant brouhaha about the discovery of a king’s bones under a parking lot that I’m convinced I walked past in Leicester in June of 2010. Maybe it’s that my aunt, the one with the sea shell, finally died almost two weeks ago.
No. Wait. It had to be MTM’s news Tuesday afternoon.
I’ll save that one for another time.
I find myself caught between not-quite-being-well and waiting. And reading. And sleeping. And snoring. According to MTM, who has no room to talk.
And, when I sleep, I dream of a woman I never met. A phantom who has haunted me through the filaments of her untold story since I was a child.
“Tell them about me,” she whispers.
Even though I know so little about her, really.
Through dripping nose and snoring and the haze of cold medicine, I will attempt to revive this female shade in the coming days. Fiction, but all fiction has a seed of fact buried within the words and letters.
Does your imagination go into overdrive when you’re sick? Or, am I the only one of us who’s a weirdo?