May 12, 2010

The marvelous mucous migration, that's what I've got. From head to chest, out to my arms, down my back and wherever else it feels like roaming, mucous runs a marathon through my body. It doesn't help my schedule, forcing me to stay in bed beyond my usual wake up time. It doesn't help my writing in the sense that its sloppy goop smothers my breathing. Not that I need to breathe in order to think, or imagine, or sculpting words that make any sense. No, no. I can escape doing any of that without ills gripping my bones. Any excuse imaginable restricts my writing muscle. But, today, the mucous marathon isn't one of them. Today I'll write in the epic if it kills me. Even with Monster Chihuahua squeezed behind my back, I'll sit on chair's edge in order to stay connected to my story. It's just that sometimes the inner critic seeks its way from behind the mucous curtain, just peeking through enough to mock my words, because that's its chronic job. Part of its description to ridicule everything I've written. But on the other hand, the smothering effect of phlegm keeps ugly inner critic covered more so than usual. As disgusting at it sounds, I imagine the little critter covered in green slime. Good for it! I hope he gets this virus and it affects him one hundred times worse than it has gripped me.