Every time you think the skies begin to clear, a vengeful weather god snickers and sends a storm your way. There is no metaphor; it is thunder. You think to yourself how a few months ago, the sentiment would be reversed, how in illness you go looking for signs from the Universe, meaning in crystals, answers at the end of hypnosis, and now how easy it is to see the world for what it is. If you were never ill, you might not have had this imagination at all.
If you were never ill, these stories might not have told themselves to you like they do, appearing like little gems in your periphery, creating worlds for you to step into and for just a moment forget the one in which your body is wasting away.
Without this illness, would rain only ever be rain,
and never a whisper of magic?