August 17, 2012
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"Oh, fuck!" Perhaps not the most elegant I could have been but an adequate translation of a headache cleaving my skull into two and a chest of mucus causing unmitigated reverberations throughout my rib cage. It was a deep cough, the kind you feel embedded in your very frame. Each expulsion let forth a rolling grumble, like an engine turning over as it strains to start; it's the sputtering before coherency.
With a rapidly waving gesture, I managed out, "Grab me a soda: cream soda, if we have it; root beer otherwise," as I tumbled into one of the chairs.
In spite of heading to the fridge anyway, she shot me a questioning look. "You've had 5 today already!" she exclaimed, her voice muffled from being stuck inside the fridge. "I have a feeling that cough and headache you have are not signs of good health."
I started laughing, wheezing from my currently articulated predicament, so much so that I jumped in my seat as the can of cream soda was thrown into my lap from across the room.
I smiled a grimace as I cracked open the can's top and held it up, commenting, "There is never an excuse to stop enjoy the best that life has to offer, even if you have a point. If I don't have diabetes type II sometime within the next 5 years, I will truly be surprised." I shuffled around in the recliner, feeling it envelop my sore body. "Besides, it's nothing that a good night of sleep cannot fix."
"Don't you ever worry you'll sleep your life away?" she asked, shaking her head as she walked over.
I kindly grimaced at her again, wheezing softly, "Ahh, no; I'm the lucky one." Her brow furrowed. "Get me tired and I have no issue going to sleep within 5 minutes; I also need 12 hours at least to remain operable. Some people toss most of the night and, once they do escape into sleep, they have nightmares to contend with. Is not the current world nightmare enough that we should be forced to bear more of it?"
I settled back once again, sighing deeply with a steady, though dim, rattle. "Oh God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams."-------------------------------------------------------
I occasionally like to pretend I can write.
Comments (2)
It has flair; without trying to sound ingratiating, I think I detect a kindred soul in regards to writing style. I find myself plagued by obsessing with word choice. French novelist Gustave Flaubert was obsessed with “le mot juste“, “the right word”.
For what it’s worth, try this; don’t try so hard to sound “articulate”. Make it simpler, even monosyllabic. Don’t think of it as something you want to publish. Think of it as texting a friend; that friend knows you inside and out; that friend is totally accepting; there’s no need for you to put on airs with that friend.
I don’t say you’ll become a published writer; I’m sure not. I do say you might find your voice; you might surprise yourself.
And discipline yourself with a daily diary / log / journal / whatever. In the years to come, you might look back and surprise yourself.
@wrybreadspread – perhaps, though I generally like an elaborate vocabulary. Speaking to your search for the right word, words have such subtlety that it's a shame we don't use more of them (or perhaps this is my way of saying that how I write above is, in fact, how I text; I do generally find myself surprised to find my messages fit the required length, more often than not).
I write when I can, though my perfectionism tends to make that far between.
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