For now, I'll leave you with the story I wrote last time I was sick.
In the middle of the night I took some medicine and after going to sleep, I had THE WEIRDEST dream. I've had some strange ones lately, but this took the cake.
A little man stood in front of me. "What you suffer from, my dear, is compression."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Compression," he cleared his throat. "Everyone talks about depression. Well who cares if you're feeling a little lower than normal. Compression is what you need to be worried about."
In my dream I just gawked at him and even thought to myself, I'm never taking cold medicine again.
"Assuming you aren't completely nutty," I said. "What is compression?"
"I'd worried about that."
"That you'd be as dumb as you look. Compression is far worse than depression. You feel as if everything is closing in. Too many worries; too much on your plate until you feel out of control . . ." He straightened his back, proud of himself. "Compression."
"And how am I supposed to fix this, oh mighty, SHORT one."
"Simple," he smiled. "Become unpressed."
"Like a shirt that hasn't been ironed?! Oh this is rich."
"Laugh all you want," he said. "But there comes a time in everyone's lives where they can't do everything. Choices must be made. Things must be cut from you life, or you'll stay compressed FOREVER, until implosion occurs."
With that he vanished and I woke up sweating. The Scribe brought me a thermometer because it was morning and she'd apparently been hovering over me for awhile. "What's your temperature," she asked me after I checked.
"102.2," I said. "This whole thing is making me feel so tired . . . And utterly compressed."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
I just looked at her. "it's hard to explain, but some day I'm sure you'll understand."
"Are you really going to write a blog today?"
"Yes." I nodded. "I've almost blogged for a year straight, and I'm not going to mess this up now. Compression, sickness or not, when I set a goal, I accomplish it or die trying."