I'm often flattened by colds. I like to think it's because I had my tonsils taken out when I was a child. But then I like to think that because I like to think I'm special. This time of year, lots going round. This year, though, time got syrupy. I got ill a lot. I've got answers as to why and I'll be okay, two things not everyone can say and for that, I'm truly thankful. But, before I knew what it was, coming back to the same sick bed again and again really did a number on me. It's not conducive to writing well and often. It's not conducive to doing much at all. My life shrunk as the fatigue and pain eroded my ability to recognise myself. And I didn't want to talk about it.

There's been a lot of my own pain in my writing to date. I aimed for transparency, considered it both a virtue and an antidote to censorship, akin to freedom. When I performed, I didn't want to hold back either, for fear of missing anything crucial out. Sure, I changed names and wrote stories, not reports. But a raw piece of me had to be there. Something real. A sacrifice. How else would people see themselves in what I was showing them, so that they could get free of whatever they were stuck in? A mirror can turn into an open window. A gift, given to me, and I wanted to give it to others. A gift, given to me, convincing me that I could give the gift to others.

Pain is rude and dull, even when it's sharp. Forcing its way to the front of the queue, screaming, it convinces me that I have no other story than the one it's telling me. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results fits boredom as well as insanity. The internet is bursting at the seams with agony. And for what? No one is coming to rescue us. We can burrow into each other, at least. Staying warm is not nothing. Neither is fresh air.

It's not that I suddenly want to become opaque. It's that, despite the noise I'm making, I'm not really talking about anything. My intense feelings used to be enough to peddle a few pieces semi-professionally but I can't shill for platitudes, great transformations, and cute conclusions anymore. As strength slowly returns in the form of stability, it brings curiosity along with it. I've reached the ends of this version of myself, who didn't understand what stamina meant. The new one is older, so she takes her time. She believes in the art of getting by.

To be continued.