Sometimes, I'm fairly certain my body dislikes me. I remember studying the immune system in late middle school, and thinking to myself: "wow, I'm invincible. My defenses are exacting and efficient with little superheroes patrolling the little roadways of my self." This confidence lasted only a short while until we finished that chapter and began discussing pathophysiology. Then, I began thinking: "dear Lord, how am I still alive? My superheroes are more dated every season!"
So that's where I'm at right now.
I did not sleep last night - I have not slept well for several nights now. Yesterday, I read most of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" and continued on "The Sparrow" between longer bouts of aimless computer browsing and lots of congested misery. I need some time to get NaNo sorted out, and I already expect this year's will be a disaster. But we'll see.
Right now, I feel ill. In my misery, I imagined I was a tree-stranded octopus. When the sun trickles between the branches, I'm scorched, and the breeze leaves me shivering. And everything, sun, rain, wind, leaves me high and dry and wondering just what happened to the sea. Or maybe I've had too many sleepless nights in a row.
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