There's something in the cold November rain that wakes you, something in the gale warning, it blows the gold off the gingkos, soon all will be dead and barren. I try to barrel into a Monday morning, turn up the therapy light, will it to wake the parts of me that still work even as I sense them starting to wither. I consider the refuge under the covers, but am well aware that path is lined with barbed wire and self-inflicted dagger wounds. How you can spend years running from the illnesses within you and still find your flesh has turned to gangrene, how your insides fall apart when you most need something to lean on.
Disease steals our days in different ways, but the inevitable fact is you're still getting older, still running out of sand in your hour glass, what will you do with the grains that remain? What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? The rain carries on outside unabated. Life asks its questions of you incessantly, ignorant to your attempted bargains for more time to answer. A small girl sits at the end of your cursor, pleads with you to carry on if only for her. You try to explain insufficiency, but she only knows that she can exist or she can not.
Fine, you think to yourself, hit rock bottom. Try it on for size, let me know if that feels better than clambering in the midst of crashing waves to a shore that will not have you. The water at the bottom of the ocean is still, yes.
But what peace will you find
when your lungs are full of it?
No comments:
Post a Comment