Hubris, that's it. For boasting that I hadn't been sick in three years. For many people, such a length of time sounds good, even if I had a bad bout of bronchitis back then, in January 2005, and was bedridden for 3 weeks. It was just after the tragic tsunami struck the countries of the Indian Ocean. I wrote a poem during that illness, lying in my bed in Vancouver.
And not a sniffle since then.
Until this week. And how quickly it developed into laryngitis! It's punishment for yelling. Whenever I do, I suppose.
Hubris and Punishment. And they sprayed Lysol around me at work, laughing, after the coughing spell, after I tried to eat my hot chili pepper spiced stew, after which I lost my voice. It's fun losing your voice when you know it's the punishment for the hubris of boasting before the Gods of the Flu.
Can't say I'm enjoying it too much though.
So I slugged codeine-laced cough syrup for the rest of the afternoon and no longer cared.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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