Days like these are the worst. Days when I can't get comfortable, and I wander from the bedroom to the living room to the office. Days where I'm not in enough pain to take extra medicine (and deal with the side effects they inevitably cause), but I'm uncomfortable enough to put aside my books, paintings and various craft projects that typically keep my mind busy. Instead, I wander, like a ghost, biting back bitter thoughts toward people who are out there living their lives fearlessly and happily. I'm the ghost of this house, a faded reflection of the woman who used to live here.
Oh, of course, there's that small voice everyone seems to have, crying out, "This isn't me!" The pain and fear smother her and I continue my circuit around the house: bedroom, living room, office. Bedroom, living room, office.
Bedroom, living room, office.
I didn't choose this limbo. I didn't choose this broken body. I didn't choose this story. Sometimes I wish I had the courage to choose an ending.
Bedroom, living room, office.
Sometimes I find myself gasping for air; a reminder that I'm still bound to this mortal coil. I'm not a ghost, no matter how faded and defeated I feel. I just can't find it in me, sometimes, to want to breathe. I'm tired of the mask I wear, the appearance of strength and happiness. Leave me alone, I want to tend this bitter garden, eat this bitter fruit, and watch my Self shrivel up into a bitter shell.
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