You are sitting, stewing and marinating in your disease. It distracts your every perceptive function with wild, fanciful tales of illusion and distress. Like a virus, it seems bent on its own survival and spread. Its strategy is to strangle your faculties on a clandestine roller coaster, leaving a husk-self, propped up on the disease scarecrow stick so it can control you. It pits you against your own family and friends, your emotions and responsibilities and joys, wiping your vision black with the sight of only crows that squawk and irritate and cloud your vision. With straw filled arms you can scarce raise your hands to brush them away as you try in vain to get a clear vision of the road, the sun, the sparkling stream alive with fish and frogs and moss where you played but months ago. Just over there the disease is laughing and splashing in your pond with soot.
Through the haze you spend all your time trying to see the disease, but it hides in the long grasses of your worries and anxieties and stresses, and the mind is ever and unceasingly wandering. The mind strolls in circles, lead on by virus breathing Puck, until it wears the pattern of walking into the earth and can tread the deep ruts of rumination endlessly.
Your body hung and hollow, your mind helpless and stuck, your soul remains. Lost and confused, it cries to the stars, trying to reach back to you with brief moments of clarity, love and warmth. Your soul is the lingering feeling that you aren’t available, aren’t what you used to be, and aren’t whole.