Written on a train while sick

(Written on a train 16/04/2017 - Easter Day. Felt ill.)

What is my body – it feels so frail, like a shred of kitchen towel. My wrists, the thinnest part of my body, seem the most prevalent – snappable. Oh I am tired, eyes bloodshot (left one with blood pooling above the pupil) and heavy. I am also clean, heat steamed, and dressed in the jumper Mum gave me. And so I feel like a sick child thrown in an adult's world. Fragile and scared, taken care of and yet constantly bombarded by what seems insurmountable – I changed currency for a terrible rate, I ate cold noodles out of a plastic pot, and I pretended ignorance because I am just so tired, ‘I do not understand’, not entirely a lie.

I am tired. I long for my one room in Cambridge. I long for a day of just myself, just rising, washing, running, reading, sleeping, eating. When I am tired God promises that He gives rest, please Lord give me rest. Rest, rest, the hiss sounds like relief, the sigh when you fold into bed. Bed rest. I – I- I think I might make no plans. Except for those heart calming lists that tie my day down to the minute, 7-7.30 wake up, 7.30-8 breakfast, when the mechanical motion of my mouth has thirty minutes to chew and swallow, repeat process, before the list is unraveled into general degeneracy and procrastination.

I was writing my dissertation before this, and the words came out slowly, dripping, titration. But when I turned my attention to writing how I feel at this moment on a train with the world going backwards the words pour out, tsunami.

I am embarrassed about my eyes. I will send a message ahead apologizing for them, for my sickness, for my sleep, and then let more words roll out behind me.