Relax on Saturday, NAH
Feb. 15th, 2014 08:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breezeshadowThis will be a relatively quick post of "life & writing" since at 9AM I start volunteering with Save the Bay. We'll be planting native seeds in an area of the Hayward coast that is closed to the public. I hope they'll let us take some pictures as we start with a 15-minute nature walk, but since it's a very delicate ecosystem right now they may not.
After that it will be shop at Target for some food, an iron, super glue (oh yeah, I'm having FUN tonig-- Wait no, I just spilled candle wax on the carpet), and copious amounts of clearance chocolate.
Then back home for hopefully some writing or at least video games.
Speaking of writing:
His bones quickly felt heavy as he sunk into the chair, resting his cane across his legs. He perhaps could have stared at the floor forever, fading away as he should have weeks ago -- but movement caught his attention and he looked up, tired old mind still able to process and think like a training soldier.
The doctor looked as old as Tegre felt. Wrinkles criss-crossed his weathered face, his eyes almost hidden among the folds. His back had begun to hunch, and Tegre felt he should give up his cane to the man, though he still stood strong if not exactly tall. His hands, despite the swollen joints, were steady and strong as he made notes to himself, humming softly as he stared at the distance Tegre had traveled. He was not focused on him, and that was all Tegre needed to shut down again, head drooping back into dull near-death.
"You're faster than I expected. That's good. Means you likely won't need the cane permanently." The doctor paused for an eternity. "Are you well? Are your humours okay?"
Sluggishly, Tegre processed the questions, realizing they were for him. He looked up to find the stranger staring at him with concern, brow furrowed to the point of near-endless creases. He reached out a hand and placed it to Tegre's forehead; it felt strangely cool, and foreign. "No fever. But you are melancholic."
He knew, distantly, that he should say something -- anything, just to convince the doctor that he was in fact fine, just a living corpse waiting for the world to realize it was over. The concern over the mention of humours was smothered by it not mattering. If he could only get those words out, perhaps the doctor would understand, and would leave Tegre to quietly die in peace.
"We will need to have lavender in your pillow, and burning oils of nutmeg and rose. Have you been eating a bland diet? Simple broths, soft meats?" At the question, Tegre found the energy to nod; he could not remember if he was eating, or what it tasted like, so he could only assume it was bland. "Good. I'll confirm with your nurse and make sure she provides the incense and lavender as well. Now, can you stand up?"
I have a rant about how some people STILL BELIEVE in humourism, but not enough time to get into it. Hope you all have a lovely Saturday.
Tschuess.
After that it will be shop at Target for some food, an iron, super glue (oh yeah, I'm having FUN tonig-- Wait no, I just spilled candle wax on the carpet), and copious amounts of clearance chocolate.
Then back home for hopefully some writing or at least video games.
Speaking of writing:
His bones quickly felt heavy as he sunk into the chair, resting his cane across his legs. He perhaps could have stared at the floor forever, fading away as he should have weeks ago -- but movement caught his attention and he looked up, tired old mind still able to process and think like a training soldier.
The doctor looked as old as Tegre felt. Wrinkles criss-crossed his weathered face, his eyes almost hidden among the folds. His back had begun to hunch, and Tegre felt he should give up his cane to the man, though he still stood strong if not exactly tall. His hands, despite the swollen joints, were steady and strong as he made notes to himself, humming softly as he stared at the distance Tegre had traveled. He was not focused on him, and that was all Tegre needed to shut down again, head drooping back into dull near-death.
"You're faster than I expected. That's good. Means you likely won't need the cane permanently." The doctor paused for an eternity. "Are you well? Are your humours okay?"
Sluggishly, Tegre processed the questions, realizing they were for him. He looked up to find the stranger staring at him with concern, brow furrowed to the point of near-endless creases. He reached out a hand and placed it to Tegre's forehead; it felt strangely cool, and foreign. "No fever. But you are melancholic."
He knew, distantly, that he should say something -- anything, just to convince the doctor that he was in fact fine, just a living corpse waiting for the world to realize it was over. The concern over the mention of humours was smothered by it not mattering. If he could only get those words out, perhaps the doctor would understand, and would leave Tegre to quietly die in peace.
"We will need to have lavender in your pillow, and burning oils of nutmeg and rose. Have you been eating a bland diet? Simple broths, soft meats?" At the question, Tegre found the energy to nod; he could not remember if he was eating, or what it tasted like, so he could only assume it was bland. "Good. I'll confirm with your nurse and make sure she provides the incense and lavender as well. Now, can you stand up?"
I have a rant about how some people STILL BELIEVE in humourism, but not enough time to get into it. Hope you all have a lovely Saturday.
Tschuess.
