I sometimes enjoy illness. Not the terri

I sometimes enjoy illness. Not the terrible kind where I’d like to crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after me. Neither do I enjoy the kind where I have to drag myself across the room for a drink of water. But I find that the kind of illness where I wrap myself in a dozen or so blankets and lay against a couple of pillows in an over-sized easy chair while I eat ice cream and drink pop without a single twinge of guilt can be wonderful.
I also find such times good for the soul and the creative side of me. No worries, no pressure of any kind because, after all, I’m sick and can’t be expected to accomplish my normal day’s quota of work.
So I lay back, close my eyes, and dream of white dire-wolves, far-flung galaxies and whatever magical creatures might be lurking in the forest beyond my window. I’ll not open my eyes because if I do, they’ll disappear. And I’ll continue to dream until the illness has run it’s course and I once again return to the real world. But I’ll return a slightly different person for having had those lovely dreams.
Because sometimes a cold can be like meditation without the mantra.

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