I.A.I.

I am ill.

I lie alone in my bed, tossing and turning, fever striking me hard as my stomach clenches. This might as well be virgin territory, as with delirious eyes I explore the rise and fall of my mattress, every nook and cranny of my discarded sheets, pushed aside like a worn out lover no longer needed.

I no longer sleep. Having to stand up and rush away makes it inefficient, even dangerous to rest too long unconsciously.

Instead, I undergo micro-sleeps. The clock I watch like a fanatic jumps erratically around the times my brain shuts down in the urgent need for rest. The onwards march of time no longer makes sense to me. I have fallen out of the continuum.

With my tiny naps come dreams, and with my fever they strike me like vivid, violent hallucinations. I panic, but my body is too exhausted to respond, and my panic feels empty, hollow.

In my dreams, I am tiny, a small man trapped by my giant bed. The sheets are now like mountains, insurmountable, and in the distance I see the rise of my pillows. I am nothing.

In my dreams, a mutated bird sits on my windowsill. It has two wings, black feathers, but three heads twitch from its single neck, one looking forward, one looking backwards, and one looking up. Beady eyes seem to watch me intently. It's endless caws try to warn me of a danger I will never understand, and then it is gone.

In my dreams, I am curled up on the floor. People surround me. They don't talk but I know they are disappointed. I try to shield myself from their scorn, but  I am weak and they are strong.

This dream lives with me longer than most.

I feel the potential of the day slip away. In my heat I wish I could melt away, lose shape and reform into something stronger, more flexible, more capable.  It it is only my tiredness talking, and the scorn I feel for my poor health will pass, even if my self hatred doesn't.

I am ill.