I’m sick, nose is stuffy, my lungs feel too congested to work and I’ve decided the ‘common cold’ is far worse then the understated prefix it’s paired with.
Lately I haven’t quite felt myself. If the old me was a working diorama, the current me feels like an old used shoebox. The lid hooked and closed around the edges of the frame. Or maybe a perfectly good record player, but with no music to play. Just sitting and laying there, collecting the dust like its new found purpose.
As much as I want to shake off the dust, there’s something comforting about it. If somethings covered in dust, no one expects it to work like it should. If somethings covered in dust, people see it as a victim of its surroundings. They don’t get disappointed by the object, only at time. Time and the person that left it there.