Mild illness come up on you with no warning. It's not something you can call the hospital on, and it's not so something you can ignore. It feels like an inferior fever that hash like paper when your skin was heated with fire, on your neck, the wound felt like a whisper of a cry. It was the boring pain behind her eyes, the fatigue that limbs like invisible weight. It doesn't knock flat, but it slows down - a quick step in the mixture, a sharp idea to the mist. You say it's nothing, you're fine, rest, drink water, maybe some paracetamol.
Nevertheless, the body speaks. It is language, which requires the mind to often try to deny. And this is the cruel charm of mild illnesses - strong enough to continue while you take them enough, all becomes more difficult. The story feels long, the laughs are slower, and even the brighter day seems a little too much. In his mild manner, mild illness is the teacher. It reminds us of how we take health for granted.
When our noses are clear, we forget how annoying sniffing is. Breathing freely will forget your blocked sinus frustration. Mild illnesses are slow enough to realize we usually overlook. It's a deep calm comfort, the warmth of the tea, the familiarity of those who ask us if we're doing well. It's not dramatic and doesn't make headlines, but it remains in the backdrop of the week, like a grey sky that should have been a sunny day. And in this room, when we listen, we learn to be more calm - with us, with others, and with fragile miracles.
