Breakdowns lurk just beyond the frontier. One feeds the next. And then they feed on each other. Like King Duncan’s horses. Then no breakdowns remain but the one cardinal. Which we knick. And then purity. Crystal. Emerald city. Castles made of ice. If only.
I’m now in Peru, but still feel the weighty chain of breakdowns tracing to those last couple of weeks in Mexico. Particularly, the paranoia. First there was the endless void. Then he created paranoia: should something disturb my anticipated outbound transition. Something like covid, which one ultimately tests for the day prior to the flight. If positive, what then happens of the flight? What about lodging, the current finito, extension unavailable? And the nearly expiring tourist visa?
Part of the mystery remains shrouded till that day of the antigen test. Negative. Delightful. But not before I’ve lived a ghost for some considerable time, energy drained, spirits perturbed. Then the awkward flight: economic, but that inter-carrier connection, no umbrella guarantee, tight layover involving the bulk of the immigration hassle. Happen anything to any one of those segments, stranded. Worse yet: to become stranded during the layover connection: in Cancun! The tourists, the opportunists, the nausea …
It failed to fail. But not without further (un)warranted stress. Then my three-week stay with family in the States. And testing positive for covid within those first few days. Contracted when and where? En route? Or days before departure, barely skidded the detection by the pre-flight test? Being a ghost isn’t good enough.
Breakdowns, short-lived but weightier symptoms, gradual recovery with lingering signs of fatigue. Energy plummets. Increased carbohydrates. Energy further plummets. Can’t write. Can’t create. The remaining weeks in a wreaked state. Ill thought. Amplified emotion. Exacerbations. Exercise, yes, nutrition, not stellar. And that’s 70%. The metric seems to align.
Then my flight to Peru. I’m in Peru now. Another awkwardly annoying, nocturnal time of arrival.Airplane food: shit. Mostly desisted, but palated some. Late evening coffee. Too early morning coffee. Lack of sleep. In limbo at the airport cafeteria. Attend to correspondences. Morning, first meal: Caldo de gallina: a gigantic broth, good on paper, devastating in practice. Desisted from a fair portion, but consumed enough. Chemistry obliterated. Then dehydration, followed by rehydration, though delayed.
That was two days ago. Trying to reestablish better nutrition. Still unacquainted with the subtleties. Will demand time to recover: to reacquire a semblance of an energetic prime: to write and think a bit more elaborately: more characteristic of Ego, less of Leopold Bloom.
Must I write any of this? Indeed. In the land of conscientious living, it’s not all gravy. Consistency suffers. Breakdowns occur. Content should be accordingly reflective.
Questions, comments? Connect.