sick
All these people are looking rather weirdly at me, as though they've never seen a sick person before. They seem to shun me like people shunned the leprous in the days when people shunned the leprous. My face is burning and my back aches, it aches more than it should fifty years from now. To say that I'm not well wouldn't be to exaggerate, neither would the opposite, it would be the precise definition of my current state. At this moment, I feel as though I'm starting to drift away in feverish blubbering, which also would be a precise definition of my current state. Well, I won't, though. Or maybe I will anyway.
At this moment I'm squatting down by a wall in the metro, partly because my legs ache like nothing else, and partly because my stomach kindly sends jolts of pain through itself, for some reason I guess only is clear to stomachs. And maybe guts.
As of now, given my posture, I guess I really can't blame people for looking in that rather weird way at me, since the people of this fine country would gladly go miles, and by miles I mean a good lot plenty, a freight trains worth, to hide their weaknesses from others. For me, however, that train has left the station long ago, carrying in its cargo my dearly missed health.
