tuesday 23.05

Everything is racing and it hurts. I can feel each organ as it calls me by name, each one demanding attention at the same time, attention I no longer have to give but demand they do and no medication eases the pain. And the taste of the morphine bitter and a constant reminder of the battle I am engaged in. I count my teeth with my tongue and lose count at seven, a train of thought lost and repeated, lost and repeated again.

The blood, I hate the blood and I sense the blood and I rush like the pounding of my head on construction glue to make sure that every little detail is in order but that too is impossible and I cry out for help and there is no one to help me, no one. I am told to go to bed and relax and I do not know the meaning any longer...

My world spins and I am the dust lay ceiling fan. The colors once vibrant spin too, shades of gray and blended but not a smooth blend, a forced blend. They are unappealing and the smell of food nauseating at thought and blind to sight as I try to concentrate on something, anything other than my physical predicament.

A spirit runs through me, cold, unlike the feel of morphine, hot.

I shake and stumble, legs crossed and glass pulsating with every envisioned step. I am powerless and my disease advances and I turn to catch its direction only to know that it approaches from all directions with a vengeance and I fear. I simply fear and try to drift to another place but not to that place for which I am called but to a comfort place for NOW, only now, for that place is for later, at least in my mind, in this moment as another passes before me. Broken sentences and a broken body fighting tireless for another moment and I continue staring down at Ashley Marie, watching her breathe and move her paws as she dreams of an approaching duck or maybe a caught frisbee.

I smell vomit, my vomit and it is down deep and I tell myself over and over and over I am not going to be sick now, I am not going to be sick as I swallow the taste, the disgusting taste of a dry heave waiting to exhale, stale breath or a molded piece of goat cheese. I stare at the computer screen and see something and remember less than nothing, grab my cigarettes and head for the backyard to smoke, a long awaited and much needed smoke at the height of my imprisonment. It is well before rush hour and I try, desperately try to avoid traffic, my traffic.

My hair is too long and my skin itches to the sight of an open wound and I feel no yawns, only incurable pain. I revert back to that place where only I can go and only I can experience for it is 'me' I am fighting, the only me I know.