Symptoms

Photo credit: westminister from morguefile.com

Although you have given me a stomach upset,

Weak knees, a lurching heart, a fuzzy brain,

A high-pitched laugh, a monumental phone bill,

A feeling of unworthiness, sharp pain

When you are somewhere else, a guilty conscience,

A longing, and a dread of what’s in store,

A pulse rate for the Guinness Book of Records -

Life now is better than it was before.

Although you have given me a raging temper,

Insomnia, a rising sense of panic,

A hopeless challenge, bouts of introspection,

Raw, bitten nails, a voice that’s strangely manic,

A selfish streak, a fear of isolation,

A silly smile, lips that are chapped and sore,

A running joke, a risk, an inspiration –

Life now is better than it was before.

Although you have given me a premonition,

Chattering teeth, a goal, a lot to lose,

A granted wish, mixed motives, superstitions,

Hang-ups and headaches, fear of awful news,

A bubble in my throat, a dare to swallow,

A crack of light under a closing door,

The crude, fantastic prospect of forever –

Life now is better that it was before.

~ Sophie Hannah

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You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.
~ Anaïs Nin