Pain is cutting through the night in a crimson gash. It’s my favourite colour but none of this is pretty, no matter how I paint it.
After an okay evening strolling through the city sketching out another post half in my head, I’ve been ambushed.
My words, ideas, energies consumed by a pain that’s a blade in my belly, a flash of fire without tinder or cause.
I’ve told myself that there is value to be found in everything, a silver sliver in every blob of black. But that’s just not how I feel when I feel like this.
I am a long way from philosophy right now. I’m pitching for calm and figure that still counts as keeping myself challenged!
The cold hard edges of the bathroom tiles give a solid edge to steady and still my woozy warm head. I’m thanking god for bathrooms with walls and floors and doors; these big small blessings.
Some kind of fly bustles by, buzzing in irritation at my late night need for bold bright light. I cannot sit and feel this in darkness. The ‘I’ will get too lost in the ‘ow’.
I’m smothering the sounds it sneaks out. Pain or no pain, I’m still too British to want to wake the neighbours!
This is not pain that is anywhere close to killing but I am a novice at managing. I am neither old enough or unlucky enough to have had this awful ache as a long-time friend. We have had no time to grow comfortable with one other so it pulses, pokes and pries through me. It leaves no space for peace or sleep.
It just will not let me alone.
This is not ideal. I’m in a hotel alone halfway to where I’m meant to be, a long way from where I want to be and I am just a little scared. I want a hand to hold, a bigger medical kit or at least a friend with a phone book!
Things could be much worse. Better here than there, now not later.
In a few hours it will be morning. My head will be cool, cold and clear and I can call work to get a doctor. That all sounds plausible enough but the right number on the clock seems far off, and all too insubstantial.
I’m hanging myself on the countdown since sunrise seems like a distant shore.
I hesitated to write this down.
In the morning it may prove there is nothing much wrong with me and I will laugh and confess myself an over anxious hypochondriacal fool.
I kind of like the sound of that version of the story so I’m using it as my sleepy hot-head lullaby.
I can type, spell and press publish so I must be fine.
If you don’t panic, I won’t.