Sometimes, you sit down, and there aren’t words for the day.
You’ve tapped the bottom of the keg.
Familiar low-grade mania visits me during this editing lull.
The weather swinging wildly along.
News that normally slides past me brings tears and chills.
Scared for my country’s future.
Surgery day is artificially remote on my emotional horizon.
Another fragile moment of relief.
The sky is grey;
the world is grey;
I am grey.
Everything teetering on the edge of
sliding back into winter, and
nothing is as it should be.
Waiting is the worst part.
How the days both evaporate and drag on.
Being “brave” when questioned.
Too much to do and nothing at all.
Making sure it’s all arranged.
The logjam of expectations.
Rushing to hurry up and wait.
(Okay, maybe not the worst part.
I can think of worse things.
But I get tired of thinking about it.
Wishing it was over so I can move on.)
I’m guilty of it, too.
The boredom with someone else’s maladies,
the endless litany of symptoms,
the constant whining and repetition of need.
It’s always something.
Not just for sniffles or aching muscles but
real scary, life-threatening shit.
I’ve stood at the sickbed of loved ones and wished
they would get better or die.
Anything to make the tedium end
And now it’s my turn.
I’m boring other people with my fear,
shoving it in their faces
when they half-ask how I’m doing.
It gets old.
But that’s the world when it’s you that suffers,
feeling frail, tiny, and weak.
Your distress leaks out of your mind as complaining
or attention-getting hypochondria.
Not on purpose but because it’s all you
I try to keep it to myself – except for when I don’t.
Sometimes, an honest sharing of pain is the best medicine.