My back hurts and I really cannot turn to see what time it is. I wake up, in the middle of the night, and try to reach the toilet like a zombie looking for fresh meat. When I look my face reflected on the mirror, I understand immediately that I am still not feeling well at all.
I have fever, and I have been at my bed for almost a week. The more I spend time at home, the stranger my thoughts evolve during the day and the more interesting my dreams get when I am asleep. The only good thing that I always experience when I am ill, is that I get memories of my childhood: it is like going back to a primordial status where everything is blurred and you cannot really distinguish when the old day ends and the new one begins. All my memories, even the most insignificant and remote ones, seem to mix on the same temporal scale of the most recent ones. I remember dreaming of me and my grandmother picking flowers in the park in front of her house. I was five, and I can still recall the feeling of the wet grass on my hands. During the night, I see phantasmagoric processions of people that have populated my life in different moments: two nights ago, I have met my first girlfriend, all dressed up as she used to when she was 16. Then I have also met my high-school physics professor, threatening me like the Spirit of past Christmas.
I hate being ill, as it seems to me that I am not in control of my destiny and things happen all around me, while I cannot even find the forces to stand up.
There is also another good thing about being ill, which is somehow connected to the first one: when you are lucky enough to leave apart the anxiety connected to the idea that you are loosing something important out there, you start looking at the small things that make up the life of everyday. Yesterday I have learned again how important is the difference between coffee from the moka and the one that I used to take from the Nespresso machine.
I will never ever drink Nespresso anymore. Of course it is ironical to think that, while your biggest concern is the quality of your after lunch coffee, great things are changing in the world, revolutions are taking place, wars are being fought. But it is good, for some time, commit oneself to little tasks that, allow you to ritualize small pleasures of everyday. I don’t know how long this fever will last and, while I go back to bed and new dreams start absorbing me, I think that when one is weak, or tired, he cannot always pretend to change the world. Sometimes, in order to make things different, it is sufficient to focus on the quality of those things that we consider marginal and not important but that, anyway, make the substance of our living.
I am sure that a good coffee will be a nice start for tomorrow.
“What interests me is living and dying for what one loves.” (Albert Camus)
What I love is telling stories about beauty, about courage, about fear. I hope you can appreciate them and then write your own ones.