magicbeans. nothing if not awkward.

Walking from the train yesterday evening, holding my jacket closed against the wind, I turned my head to the sky and closed my eyes and… And let it wash over me? And floated away, if only briefly, if only for just the smallest bit of a second? And vanished? At the corner, in the next gust of wind, I let my jacket fall open and spread out like wings. I'm sure I had a fever. I couldn't tell with any certainty if it was cold or balmy or merely windy. The sky was clouded and pink, but no rain.

This morning, this afternoon, I felt better. Up to the task at hand. Or yesterday's task at hand in any case. A day behind. Two if you account that yesterday's task, now today's task, was squeezed in, tumbling the blocks of the whole schedule out, a few hours here, a day and a half there. Accomplished, mostly. And dealt with some persistently lingering unpleasantness as well—bolstered by two cigarettes and the attendant lightheadedness before any solid food yet today.

One meal in my belly now, another shot of day-glo orange cold medicine, and yet feeling the worse for wear, the fever back perhaps, or perhaps that comes of asking for help. Admitting my fallibility. It's funny, on the one hand I yearn, like a constant low-grade headache, for lifetime companionship, for a partner to help me up from time to time, and on the other I feel this burning need to prove that I'm so self-reliant that I'll drive myself deeper and deeper rather than ask for help.

Perhaps that's not funny. It's certainly not funny-ha-ha, but it's probably not even funny-odd. Just part of the fucked up human condition. Enough brain power to give rise to self-awareness and then to engender the notion that we're being self-sabotaging, but we keep doing it anyway.