I was so afraid of going under
but now, the weight of the world
feels like nothing, nothing
I cannot lie that I grew more and more nervous as I read a scintillating article on Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson from an outdated Cosmogirl. Periodically, various doctors shook my hands. We'll see you soon.
"...We'll give you this breathing device that will be in your throat and breathe for you..."
Good God, what are they doing to me?!
Scoot down a bit more...a bit more...They call me something, I don't remember, something to do with my shortness.
Needles. I act brave. "We'll give you a sedative first."
The ceiling begins to swirl gently. "It's working already."
I wake up, slightly chilly, covered with white blankets. My leg is moving back and forth gently on a machine. Did I dream this? No, I'm moving, I must be done. I mutter something incoherent to my mother and fall back asleep.
Last night confused images came into my mind while I slept. I'm not sure if it was the drugs or the situation.
Why would I want to go through this? The pain and the blood. I awake slightly and alas, there it is. I wonder about you and how you might have changed the circumstances. I wonder if this would have happened. Maybe not, but there may have been other pain, slower and more chilling to the soul.
In one way, it's choice, and in the other, it's duty. Ethical duty.
After reviving myself from a groggy state, I miss my friends. Thanks for coming over, Priedes, you brightened my day! Buddy, I did follow your advice and it served me well. Mike, I hope you're not too devastated by "the news" - perhaps the photos will help.
Much love, much love. :-)
The night before, I decided to take a stab at poetry.
For me, poetry strikes in a moment. I put down the words of the now, of the urgent. I do not labor extensively, or else the effect is lost. Stream of consciousness.
It may be poor and the words never correct, but I like the narrative it creates. I speak to you, of you, while giving you a piece of me.
What will you do with it?