-- journal.
Entry #1. 01/09
It feels odd to write again, although I wasn’t ever much of a writer to begin with. Lately though, I’ve been feeling to need to record something down, perhaps my life and story. For future generations? I doubt it. Mostly for myself.
I have a fever, and as high and mighty as Yifan claims to be, I can’t find some damn medicine to ease the pain, so now my remedy is in the hands of herbal tea, freezing temperatures, and a sea of blankets. It’s a sea really, there’s so many that I find myself lost and reaching my hand out. In the delusions of my sickness I’m usually reaching out for someone, something to pull me out of the hell of my own body. They—it—always escapes my grasp. It’s mostly the heat I’m not used to. Not in the winter at least. It’s a blessing in disguise, and even the headaches are nothing compared to those born of stress, so in a way I’m winning. In a way.
I don’t have much else to write, the days go by in a rush, each the same as the last. The scar seems to be healing pretty well—hopefully it won’t leave too bad of a mark. Right now I’m watching the sun reclaim its place in the sky after restless sleep, but that in itself is normalcy. Perhaps I shall be more inspired when I’m back to my normal state of frigid numbness, but for now I bid the pencil goodbye. I think I hear someone coming and the last thing I want is questions accompanied by worry. I’ll hide this and pretend to sleep, that seems like the best plan. I nee
The last word is unfinished and wears a tail of ink that connects it to the side of the page. There’s a sudden knock at the door, a fumble of limbs, a drowning amongst the blankets. His eyes clamp shut in the most natural of ways while his expression slackens and he finds himself exemplifying pain. A slim figure stands above him and places a cold hand on his tepid forehead with a sigh. The sound itself carries pity through the air, threading it into the surroundings until its all he can feel—even when the door is closed again and the solitude inundates the room. He feels it with every toss and turn, the imaginary thread cutting into his skin with every movement, carving words into the smooth expanse in each occurrence. Pitiful. Weak. Bothersome. Unnecessary. Lu Han accepts each reprimand with a tired groan of compliance, quiet like whimpers. Normalcy indeed.