I'm in Falun now, waking up. I'm groggy and clammy and all of me aches for more rest. I didn't sleep well—which is more than I can say about the night before, when I slept only an hour.
I woke up tangled in cloth—swimming in sheets soaked with sweat. I spent the last day and a half with a horrible fever. My body sang a song slowly fading between burning and freezing, accompanied by a strong background band of shivering and a stabbing in my stomach.
I have to admit that I mostly like having a fever. The drunk English soccer hooligans in my intestines, well, I could do without them. And I miss sleep. But, I let myself indulge in the rest of the sensation. My body feels flushed, my mind is sluggish and dreamy. Life is a little dizzier. I shiver—maybe even tremble. The hairs stand up on my skin. I spend so many nights of my life wishing I felt that way—or that I had something or someone to make me feel that way, even if only for a few moments.
With a fever, it's all there for free.
Today I was sad that I woke up and felt almost all the way better. I think I sweated out everything and maybe a little more last night. Well, that's how it feels splashing about in these sheets. Either I dumped buckets of sweat all night or central Sweden fell prey to a salty, boy–smelling tsunami and I slept through the whole thing.
All I know is that maybe there's a reason people don't drink lots of absinthe anymore.
PREVIOUS ENTRY - NEXT ENTRY