Instances of can-do are dwindling. Skin is cold and clammy, sticky too, as if I’d rolled in ashes and morning dew, but then I’ve neither bathed nor washed in days. Can’t read more than a few paragraphs – text congeals. Can’t speak for long – mouth clogged with a thousand nestling words. Even periods of listening to the radio – the last vestige – have shortened drastically.
This kind of drudging (yes!), debilitated state of being, mine and that of untold others, bores and absorbs. Not much to describe as far as interesting activities are concerned, no fireworks to report (although there is passion), no adventures (not for lack of impulse), rarely achievements which count in the wider world (somehow ambition survives). Focus is on basic needs (and a wish for wing buds) – a handicap for stirring conversations.
Not all is bad: There are hopes, jokes, fantasies, mangoes for breakfast, and, once in a blue moon, when the sleep authorities accord a greater portion, the pleasure of a brief encounter.