I've spent two entire weeks being witness to all my cousins, all my family, falling sick one by one and escaping it. With distance and open air, I kept safe, vindicated by my now long held hatred for falling ill during vacation or coming back from it.
It went so well.
And this morning, prepared to take the train, mask and all, to live through the last hurdle likely to bring down all my effort, I felt it.
The familiar discomfort at the back of my throat. "It could mean nothing", I could tell myself. "After all, I haven't felt it since I left my bed". But I know better than to fool myself, as history tells me there's no escaping it.
All of that because, on my last day, I decided to go on a gay little walk on the windswept sea-cliffs of Brittany, taking photos with my gay little film camera which, for all I know until I have them developed, might be trash! Oh! How fresh of a wind! How life-saving is the cold whip of the ocean as temperatures rise to unnatural levels!
Foolish!
In my battle against the microbial, I opened myself to the uncaring powers of the Vast, striking my throat as a giant steps on an ant. My confidence, my celebration of having escaped the curse that befalls me every time I leave the walls of my dear city, was only hubris.
And now I sit, unfeeling, with no sign of the fate I know is coming for me. My bags are done and my room is cleaned. There is nothing left to do, except to wait.
For my train to bring me back to my welcoming home, in which I will wake up tomorrow morning.
Sick.
Update : sick.
