Plans for the next three days—meetings, phone calls, quiet writing—dissolved into the slow motion of illness. I spent hours stretched out isolated from the others, the sounds of the household drifting in from other rooms, the world narrowed to the whir of the AC and the restless churn of my own thoughts.
And churn they did. Ideas and memories circled endlessly, like leaves caught in a whirlpool—sometimes colliding, sometimes spinning apart, occasionally joining in strange combinations. Conservation strategies I’d been mulling for months brushed up against flashes from old expeditions. A scene for my next book tangled with a memory of an orangutan pausing mid-climb to look down at me with quiet curiosity. The whirlpool carried everything—trivial details, grand ideas, and scraps of unfinished plans—around and around, as if waiting for something to settle.
Somewhere in the haze, my mind landed on Alfred Russel Wallace, the British naturalist who, while in the Malay Archipelago, was also laid low by a tropical fever—malaria, in his case. He wasn’t in Surabaya, but on another island called Ternate in what is now Indonesia, and in that delirium he pieced together one of biology’s most powerful ideas: the theory of natural selection.
I couldn’t help but wonder—was it the fever that loosened the threads in his thinking, allowing new patterns to emerge? Did the altered state strip away the usual constraints, letting disparate observations weave into something entirely new?
In my own much smaller way, I recognized the same strange unlocking. The fever had softened the usual walls between ideas, letting them eddy and mingle in ways they might not have under clearer conditions.
By the time the fever broke, the whirlpool began to slow, its contents drifting back into familiar channels. But a few thoughts remained suspended—bright, unanchored, and ready to be explored. Illness had been the price, but clarity, in its odd fever-born way, had been the gift.
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