My lungs felt less like organs and more like two heavy, damp wool sweaters I was trying to breathe through. Every inhale was a negotiation; every exhale, a surrender. The air in the room was stale, tasting of menthol, fever-sweat, and the metallic tang of a body fighting a war against itself.
: Late-night writing captures a sense of "purgatory," where the present is so overwhelming that the past and future seem nonexistent. The Surreal and the Absurd i wrote this at 4am sick with covid
There is a clarity that comes with 4 AM exhaustion. The trivialities of the day—the emails, the deadlines, the social obligations—have evaporated. All that remains is the rhythm of my own pulse and the desperate, simple desire for a deep, clear breath. Covid doesn't just steal your sense of taste or your energy; it steals your sense of time. This hour could be an eternity, or it could be a blink. My lungs felt less like organs and more
So, I am writing this. Not because I have some profound insight to share with the world, but because the cursor on the screen is the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. : Late-night writing captures a sense of "purgatory,"
Taking one sip of water counts as a productive hour.
So, here is the raw, unfiltered data from the brain of a sick person at 4 AM.