I’ve been sick this past week.
A week ago, on Sunday morning at church, I began feeling the onslaught
of what has turned out to be
The Lost Week
It’s an odd thing, losing a week. I remember sleeping a lot and coughing a lot and fevers and watching a lot of television that did not necessarily make a lot of sense. And today, I feel empty. Not sure what to write; not sure how to begin thinking again.
I’m used to a mind that thinks. This one? Not so much. Mostly it seems to stare out from behind my eyes, wondering what all this is about anyway. And why it is, exactly, I strive so much. I expect that will fade and I’ll be back to thinking soon, but in the meantime, I’m home on a Sunday morning, another unlikely occurrence, the hacking cough has for the most part stopped, and I’m left feeling a little dish-raggey.
I didn’t expect to give up my mind for Lent.
Funny the things we cling to as our identity. I write and I think. What am I if I don’t?