I told a friend that I was going to be intentionally unproductive today. Which is what I am doing, more or less.
After yesterday's full schedule of seeing patients, I am unabashedly unproductive. Pruning a few words beside two slumbering cats, catching glimpses of three cardinals through the kitchen window while at breakfast. Already, the day feels full.
Out of desperation, I take the antihistamine in the morning. Drowsiness sets in, with that particularly chemical feeling spreading over me. I do battle, with more tea, some poetry. But the words remain literal, stolid. They plant themselves outside the fog, while from the inside I peer out, trying to blink away oblivion.