Every day is characterized by the following: how to spend a finite amount of energy and working around certain corporeal limitations. It is not unlike being a ghost and learning to move things in a different way, spectral and uncertain and just as frustrating and lonely as you might expect.
I have not been able to walk properly since July, although I can get around a little bit just not very long and not very far and with an especially hideous limp. I have not been able to drive a car since October. I have quite possibly become the kind of woman who makes condensed soup casseroles topped with crushed potato chips and struggles with agoraphobia. Gross.
I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower and finished reading The Doomsday Book and made numerous lists of things that need doing. The solitude is almost oppressive enough to make me want to sit on the porch in the cold rain but everyone in this house has been sick sick sick so that seems unwise.
The rain makes all the outside lights look blurry and magical. I might work my way through a stack of YA novels--I have The Queen of The Tearling and Cinder and Insurgent--and maybe work on some writing projects and drink pots and pots of green ginger tea.
I have gotten so accustomed to silence that when my phone dings with an email or some other notification I jump outta my freaking skin.