What? I never said I was ONLY going to write once a day after all.
I have sat here listening to music since I returned from the supermarket and I have thought, a lot, about, a lot.
Sharing is Caring!
I went to bed with a migraine last night, I woke up with one this morning and it has persisted throughout the day. This isn’t particularly new or earth-shaking information to be honest, but it made me think of what things would be like if it wasn’t like this. If I was able to sit in a lit room for more than a few hours at a go, if I could read the way I wanted to, if I could go back to work and be a “productive member of society” again. Despite claims to the contrary by some, I LOVE going to work. I like helping people, I love talking on the phone. I was Customer Service, I have done it for banks and pet food companies, bill collectors, tech support and even the Mouse. I love talking on the phone in an age where some people can barely be bothered to look at the damn thing when it rings never mind actually talk on it.
I understand people get anxiety from phone calls I am not knocking them at least, I am merely saying I am a piece on a board game that is very much defunct in that respect.
I wonder if I would have written the great novels I have in my head even as I type this. If I could have brought all of you Linae, Siobhan (more coming soon Mama), The Marquess and Rinira. They are old friends who deserve to have their stories told in a rich and unending way. They deserve to dance and scream, torment and be help, worship and be worshiped. Hundreds of thousands of words, millions and millions of letters and they are RIGHT THERE, I can see them when I close my eyes, I can feel them try so hard to push themselves from my fingers.
Poetry, my beloved poetry. I would write it day after day simply for the joy of combining words in a way I saw beauty in that no one had ever seen before. I wrote the dark and emo stuff, yes, but I also tried to emulate my beloved Coleridge in his opium driver fervor and Thomas in the alcohol dominated perfection of his short and fiery life.
Even the beauty of Code, typed in rigid formality and perfect harmony. Making a thing work that never had been thought of in that exact way by anyone but me.
They have talked to me about a thing called Deep Brain Stimulation. A pacemaker for the brain, attached to the brain in specific locations that send electrical impulses. I know nothing of it and the thought of a hole being drilled in my head is terrifying for reasons that have nothing to do with pain or temporary disfigurement and everything to do with being able to see and know how broken I am every time I look into the mirror, or turn my head and feel something just so. I have close friends, who happen to be scientists, tell me that it is most likely not a big deal. I simply cannot force myself to see that.
How does that proverb end?
“So a kingdom was lost—all for want of a nail.”
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