This week I've been mostly coughing the inner workings of my chest into the (very small) hand sink of my ensuite bathroom; there is no door to my room, just a stairwell rising up into the princess tower (a name coined way before my arrival).
My house mates have been subjected to a daily morning ritual, rising from their slumber with aural performance which is distinctly gruesome and animalistic, the sound of lungs attempting to function in a perpendicular state post eight hours of horizontal build up.
Melbourne is a place of new germs, my body is ill prepared to counter attack its unfamiliar strains. I've found myself clearing my way through ten days of fuzzy heads and hazy surroundings.
Today I got hit by a tram,
in my dazed state it whizzed past me, clipping my arm as I gazed ahead confused as to why people were signing in my direction. It was a sensory experience, aside the embarrassment and pain, the rush of Adrenalin was heightening. I am on five different drugs.
Illness warps everything. In a martyr like fashion I attempted to overlook my cold, denying any desire to go home and sleep, instead consoling myself in the distraction of life, My social calendar brimming with alcohol based activities, hot toddy's to get my through the day, glasses of fizzy white post work at various openings around the city. Tonight, warehouse, party, bar and opening, in reverse order, interesting, the mind immediately jumps to the end. There is something grossly sadistic about ignoring ones ills and pushing through, yet the sickness makes you feel alive and inspired, perhaps by ignoring the problem it goes away.