The junk in my knees is making me weep. I curl up on my bed, folded into myself like a sugary dough about to be served. It fascinates me how my tears slowly get tired and my face just gives in to the pain. I stare blankly at the yellow wall in front of me. Filled with stains of water and shoes, it reminds me of all the people who have come through this room. It is a small number but a significant one. It surely is a cast of a lifetime movie. An undetermined storyline of a life, lived by its suddenly inspired, perhaps misunderstood actors. But I have to confess that I am not a supporter of any pleasures being guilty. You may suspect that my languid mind is prone to confess and accept unusual things at this moment. It may be true, I have nothing against suspicion either. Does not change my belief that shame in pleasure is exciting but guilt is just not an emotion worth its while.
I have no guilt for the tangent-cy of my life. The touch and go nature of lives makes people feel subpar, like the shifting of the spotlight, the snatching of a title. Acceptance of this fluidity has given me strength and hope. For a suspecting woman thinking of suspicions of all the suspecting people around her – hope is a medicine. Fluidity has helped me learn everything except swimming. Which ironically I am quite bad at.
The pain is travelling in shots to my toes and back to my knees. Spanning the short lengths of my legs. Scanning my dying bones. Zoop. I have a lady in white next to me, dropping tubes into me and saying something equivalent of “This too shall pass”. But it may not and that is also OK. Such callous nature of things designed to save lives. Sharp and stabbing, cold and chemical. It should really make people think of the distinctions they make between the good, the bad and the ugly. I just wrote ‘the ugly’ because I couldn’t resist. It really has no significance in that sentence. I suppose the influence of this collective called pop-culture is stronger than my pain. And I suppose pain has no significance in my story either. Maybe that idea is the central character of my story. And maybe the supporting actors are all the men & women with feelings. Waiting only to find out in the end that it means nothing at all. There is no story, just words on a screen like blotches of ink you seem to see Jesus in.