is something I should not be doing right now.
But I don't know how else to cope with what is moving into me, through me, right now.
Tomorrow, nice and early, I will be submitting my source of my power, the center of my strife and struggle, to scrutiny under Magnetic Resonance Imaging. My hip. My darling hip. It shakes, it quivers, it bends and undulates. Why does it betray me now? Why this pain? Why does it make me stop?
What will I do?
How do I cope with this? What do I do with all that is inside me, clamoring to escape? Who am I, without my movement? Who am I without my dream? Who am I if no one understands the depth, the profundity, the pain, of what it is I am losing?
A painter I heard about quit painting because he said that no one cared if he kept painting. Six months later he started painting again because no one cared that he stopped.
No one cares about what I do except me. But I care so much it is tearing me apart. My dreams are me, and I am them, and they are the reason for my sentence in this slowly deteriorating flesh. If I can't pursue them with every fiber of my being, I do not know what will become of me. Except vodka. Vodka on the rocks.
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