Everything is on a time line. Rather than in my past when I scheduled my life with the notion that it would go forward in perpetuity, I find myself planning very little, careful to monitor my ambitions for events too far out on the calender. I never before saw my life as a lit fuse. My phone ringer is the theme song for Mission Impossible, more and more apropos as the weeks go by, ironically immediately appropriate as the thing rings at me, just out of reach. Yes, I can, with focus, stand up, but as of yet I'm not going anywhere. I ate sushi last night. I had to be fed by my daughter. I'd hoped to feed myself but the lack of rotation in my wrist and forearm caused me to mash each piece into my mouth with the back of my hand. Much of this messy action would result in a cat parade eating the fish off my shirt. Sarah did a great job inserting the rolls and sashimi but the entire entourage limited my wasabi intake for fear of my death. I can think of worse ways to go (and often do).
On a dark moment. It was a dark and stormy night. Bad thought coupled with bad writing. I don't fear dying, I fear not dying, malfunctioning bit by bit, moving less and less, my speech compromised, eventually eliminated, incontinent, immobile, helpless, lacking the strength to hold the gun, to pull the trigger, caught up in a destiny of nightmares, lying in a metaphorical coffin, buried, a tube offering just enough air to induce constant panic, all the terror of the undead, trapped in a cadaver. I've been trying for over a year now to slam the brakes, to jerk the wheel, to turn off my course, sometimes succeeding in taking out the roadside vegetation, maybe slowing a little. The last six months I haven't been able to drive. This might be a good thing. I could find myself looking for a physical barricade to my psychological road trip to hell. Do I tend to be melodramatic? No. Do I possess an overactive imagination? You tell me.
strong man!
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