A Letter to a Friend - The Theatre of Life
Dear friend,
How are you? Are you still alive? How are the art and the children? I'm the only one who isn't sick, and neither is the baby, and I haven't slept in at least a week...
I'm not feeling any better; it's been over three weeks and I haven't noticed the slightest difference.
I went to the doctor last night after feeling really bad following a cheese fondue with alcohol. The headache in my neck has practically disappeared, but I felt a sharp popping sound in my head.
I passed out on the sofa when I woke up. I crawled back to bed and woke up with the same headache. I fought with the stupid health insurance company, left a message with my previous provider, emailed the administration about my 2025 health insurance, and called the emergency room. 😐 I could go in two hours, and I needed that time to get dressed and cross the street, but hey, what could possibly happen except get hit by a car in front of the office? I'm allergic to antibiotics, so they're giving me... antibiotics, plus a malaria pill that's also used to treat acne, with its serious side effects of eczema, and other things I'd rather not mention. One of them, by the way, is a swollen tongue... What an awful way to choke! I had that experience in Africa... We'll see what happens tomorrow. The doctor, clumsy but kind—or was she nervous?—couldn't find her things and dropped several. But oh well, I'm still alive, alive enough to feel miserable. 🥺
What's life like on the island? I always wonder how many empty houses they have.
Hahaha. We're feeling like the characters in the novel Chronicle of a Death Foretold lately.
If we survive this, we'll write again for the theatre of life!
17.12.25
Prompt: the theatre of life
Picture source
Hello from the moors.
I'm not even near the coast, and the mosquitoes are a solid mass. They buzz like death itself. A thin line between anxiety and dreams.
I think about you a lot. You're a cornerstone in this family of hospitable nomads who threaten to live forever.
I write at odd hours.
My finite time, between household chores and work, I take my time; it has been redefined. I want to surrender myself again to the arms of art, to be embraced by the muses.
My hands and every joint ache. But I keep trying.
Tomorrow they should all be a little better; they've started eating something.
I will always think of you. Even if the endless power outages turn into small smoke signals.
Look at your gray sky. Remember that whenever I look at mine, I remember the blue volumes and the potatoes that sprout from every verse.
0.00 SBD,
22.27 STEEM,
22.27 SP
Near the coast, the mosquitoes will not be that many simply because they can't breed in salty water and the wind will for sure blow there more.
I wonder what happens if you would have a vacuum cleaner and vacuum that solid mass.
Does no one on the island has that single ugeneue gen that protects against mosquitoes? I read there are 3 different types (the sikkelcel gen is one of them).
It's not easy to create art if every joint and cm in your body hurts.
Know that you are in my mind as well, but it's hard to see smoke signals appear in a grey sky.
I try to finish the blue tonight or tomorrow morning.
It's good to hear the family feels a little bit better; it's like you said: The Chronicle of a Death Foretold.
A super creative day/week
🍀♥️
@ wakeupkitty
Complex situations overcome, that's life