aphorism; noun, [af–uh-riz-uh m]
Quite literally spending the day as a mucus repository—my nasal passages are clogged, worse than LA rush hour traffic.
I woke up this morning and immediately wished to curl in bed and sleep through eternity. I have no idea when this cold crept up on me. It’s a tough one—took much disgruntled sacrifice to force my sweat-slicked body to attend a morning class and then venture out to the pharmacy. Wearily picked up several tissue boxes, cough drops, and medicine that was almost denied because the cashier thought my ID wasn’t valid.
The battling sources of comfort: cough drop tea from the farm, Franck’s trio no. 1 in f sharp minor, Dandelion Wine. As a result of this cold, my vocal chords are an octave lower. My skin is warm, which means that walking into the cool air feels tentatively pleasant. I’m finding delight in the aphorisms of dining hall fortune cookies.
- “Don’t be discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward.”
- “Accept your independence and use it wisely.”
- “Beauty is not in the face; it is the light in the heart.”
My study habits have been infiltrated, too—I read the same poetry passage five times before realizing I’d understood none of it. Oddly, though, practicing piano has had the opposite effect. I spent a few hours sight-reading potential trio pieces and felt radiant afterwards (which was then accompanied by a inevitable crash). I think my brain prefers deciphering Brahms and Schubert over agonizing sneezes and cherry lozenges.
An off day oft keeps monotony away.
(Sometimes you just gotta have your off days).