At 4am, everything feels permanent, hopeless, and your own fault. Common lies your brain tells you:
And you write.
I stare at the cursor blinking on the screen. It is a heartbeat. Still here. Still here. Still here. I’ll likely read this tomorrow—or whenever the "tomorrow" is where the fever breaks—and find it nonsensical. But right now, in the stillness of a house that feels too big and a body that feels too small, these words are my only anchor. i wrote this at 4am sick with covid
I’m going to try to sleep again. Or maybe I’ll just watch the fridge hum.
There is a strange clarity that comes with a fever. It’s a "fever dream" logic where the most mundane things feel profound. I spent twenty minutes staring at a half-empty glass of electrolyte drink, thinking about how beautiful the neon orange hue looked against the moonlight. When your body is fighting a war internally, your external perspective shifts. You realize how much of your "normal" life is built on the fragile assumption of health. The Brain Fog Chronicles At 4am, everything feels permanent, hopeless, and your
: Many writers describe a literal "breathlessness" in their verse that mirrors the physical symptoms of the virus.
I am convinced that time has stopped. I looked at my phone what felt like an hour ago, and it was 3:58 AM. It is now 4:14 AM. How is that possible? In the daylight hours, time slips away from us. But in the COVID-induced insomnia of the witching hour, time is thick and sticky. It’s like trying to walk through molasses. It is a heartbeat
Don’t try to be profound. Don’t try to be funny. Just write whatever passes through your feverish mind. “My nose is a faucet. The ceiling crack looks like Bolivia. I wonder if the delivery driver remembers my orange juice order.” This isn’t art. It’s survival.