The Search for Health

[Durchii]

I lost my notebook today.

Normally, this type of dilemna is treated with slow, apathetic searches that I carry out with

grim lethargy. I suppose today was a crude awakening from an ordeal that was becoming terrifyingly redundant.

"Those that boast about their shortcomings will recieve no sympathy from me."

This thought deserved a place in my journal, I thought. Even if it didn't, I needed to secure its place on paper for evaluation at a later date. I began the usual droning walk to my coffee table.

It wasn't there.

That was odd, I remembered it being there. I searched through my books with escalated speed, I

collapsed.

What was wrong with me?

Nausea, confusion, blurred vision, was I going into delirium?

As I regained the ability to walk, I stood up and looked around my immediate area. Good, I hadn't

knocked anything to the floor. It wouldn't have made a difference, there is rarely a sense of

order in this concrete tomb of mine.

I sat on the rocking chair I keep next to my small black reading table and stared at the books I

had saved from the previous day. Either/Or, I would more of that soon, how I did miss Mieregaard

at that point. I had recieved 'Kingdom of Fear' by the late Hunter S Thompson only a few hours

prior to this being written, I will read it later.

I digress.

I began to alter my search with a more frantic air-though, the deeper into my belongings I

searched the more delirious I became.

My legs became weak, I was at the point of crawling. Nauseous, so ill, I collapsed in the middle

of my sitting circle and vomited.

The notebook, I must find the notebok, I thought.

I mulled around the basement, searching everything with my eyes.

It must be hidden beneath something, I thought.

I began throwing whatever I could find across the room. All of the work I put into cleaning this

place the previous day was in vain as I overturned my coffee table, tossed blanets across the

room, opened the air vents, my dresser and my desk drawers.

Was this some sort of hell? Had I been damned to a hopeless sickness for all of eternity, with no possibility of aging or release from this domain until I locate my notebook?

I looked at the concrete beneath me and considered boring through the rock with my power drill.

No, they wouldn't have done this to me. Grim precision, the accuracy, they put thought into this.


Who were they?

Dear God, somebody help me!

I collapsed onto the cold, stiff, unrelenting floor.

All went silent.

It grew cold, and I began to hear a familiar sound.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I know this sound--Yes, the leaky water pipes, they do this often.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

With every monotonous drip, my eyesight began to evade me.

It was growing dark.

Was I dead, or was this illness killing me?

Whatever was happening, it was happening swiftly and without mercy.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Oh please, someone, wrap me in a potato sack and throw me off a bridge-Bring the hammer down swiftly, I beg of you!

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Wait, potato sack. Yes, man! Think! Don't lose it!

I shook my head and sat up. There wasn't much time.

Drip. Drip.

The drops were slowing, my demise was near. This was it!

I looked to the hammock I had brought in the previous season, in preparation for winter. On top

of it was my black cinch bag that I had purchased three weeks before.

Stop thinking about your bag, you dolt!

Drip. Drip.

Yes! That's it!

I crawled towards the bag, flung the top open and unraveled the string holding the sack closed.

Drip. Drip.

My hand flew, mercilessly, into the darkness of the sack.

Drip.

--

As I walked back towards my desk, I felt my delirium fading and my sight slowly returning to me.

I smiled at the red pen I had flung to the floor during my escapade, and picked it up with my

thumb and forefinger.

The dripping had since ceased.

I flung open the notebook to the next available page and put my pen to the paper.

"Those that boast about their shortcomings will recieve no sympathy from me."

I stared upon this page and tried to think of something meaningful, but could not.

What now? What of the next step? Certainly, I must have an idea of what to do now.

I closed my notebook and placed it on my cabinet.

Memories rushed back to my head. Memories of past times, relationships lost, lives taken and

previous illnesses. I stared at the ceiling for god-knows how long.

I grew weary of this-My memory was torturing me! Why does it always do this? I don't need this!

I stood up, and nearly lost my balance.

I turned around, walked three steps and opened the window behind my desk. The crisp morning air

rushed to my brain instantaneously, giving my recovery one final push. I was healed. I looked up.

The final memory that came to my mind was one from my childhood- I lied on the green grass, still

moist from the morning dew which had yet to evaporate. I picked a cloud that was emerging from

the horizon, one of a size and shape to my liking. My eyes would relentlessly monitor this cloud

from one horizon to the other. Rarely would it move swiftly, as that would do nothing for me.

Sometimes the cloud would move in a straight line, horizon to horizon.

Other times it would change direction, halfway through the sky, and alter its course completely.

But, my favorite phenomena was picking a cloud that trudged through its journey at a pace

resembling a paraplegic sea turtle, watching it move throught the morning at a crippling speed,

and finally seeing it stop, utterly, between horizons.

I would watch this cloud hesitate with its course. I would watch it, sometimes I would will it

forward, but it would not obey. If the cloud could have smiled, that is what I think it would

have done that very instant before it wilted from my eyes and was freed from its harsh journey.

It would smile at me for all I had done for it. The curious, young eyes, following it from

horizon to horizon, and watching its ultimate demise unfold before them.

I turned back towards my desk.

"This place has become suffocating, I wish to go for a walk."

And so it was.