This was a rough weekend, I refuse to remember it. Between intoxication and deliberate refusal I have only shreds of it, brief, dull and insubstantial moments, more impression than real memory.
I know I did very little. This morning is no sharper, but I saw the piled dishes. Saw the unfinished projects, the undivided plants. My room is a disaster area from which I had to drag myself like a new butterfly escaping its cocoon, jelly legs and tenuous form battering against the implacable frame of changeover from one day to the next.
I don’t remember dressing myself, don’t remember rediscovering the dusty gym bag. I remember the solitary goose standing against the river, staring back at me as loons and gulls cycle dipped along the river behind him, landing, floating, flying back.
The recycling is gone. So is the snow. Bulbs are coming up, buds are swelling, but it is some weeks before any open, before the grey-brown turns green. I feel as if it’s too far to reach, like a hand extended over a ledge with ten more feet to go between finger tips and a solid grip. The space is better, the house less claustrophobic, but now there seems too little left to fill it. Yet, I feel there’s still more to lose, more to be rid of, that I’m still in the cutting phase of home upkeep, that I haven’t yet earned the trim baseline required to begin building.
In every endeavor I feel shoved off balance and only upright by the fragile grip of my awkwardly set toes.
The ache that draws along my back, up through the collar, then down my esophagus, up the other side, cutting beams through my body, sectioning me into decorous geometric shapes, pairs with the spent and somewhat ragged grind of my breathing.
Fifteen minutes since the hour long, stationary run.
Fifteen years and the breathing problem has been as plain as the nose on a doctor’s face, or the lungs in my chest.
There’s no improvement for them to make, nothing left for medicos to try. It’s all to me. There is little I can do, lose the last of the weight I have, keep pushing that eye blackening envelope just after five minutes of running, but I have no idea what good might come of it. I have never been as fit as I could be, I don’t know if that will be enough to live as I want. I don’t know if any physical wish is yet attainable.
The whole rest of everything is a superunkown.
I’ve always hated surprises.