I Want to Do the Impossible

I'm about to do something crazy. I'm not sure why. To fight against the meaninglessness of it all, some sort of existentialist gesture? Or, like I hope, to get something going, get the gears moving, get off the humdrum track and into the wilderness.

I want to fight bears and tigers. I want to jump on an eagle's back. I want to run across a lava field. I want to touch the floor of the abyss.

I want out, basically.

The great thing about being alone is that I can over dramatize my life and it'll seem real. There's no one to contradict me, or pull me back down to earth, or into the light.

I've had it, really, with all that surrounds me and fills me. I want a new hand of cards, a fresh plate. I want to be born in another place, another time.

What do I want to do? It's not just one thing anymore. Not a field, or career, or project. I want to change the assumptions, the premises, the foundations. I want to go deep down and decide for myself.

I don't want to end up as anything. I want to be there, in that place, as that person, in an instant. At the snap of my fingers, upon making a decision, I want my eyes and my world to change. I want my heart to turn inside out.

I don't want to have to justify or rationalize what I do anymore. I don't want to have to understand or explain myself anymore. I just want to know or not know and be okay with it all and move on anyway to do sure things, fantastic, unimaginable things. I just want to do and do and do, with no doubt or hesitation.

I am Afraid to Look Beyond the Lighted Room

Someone told me yesterday that I will live a long time, until I'm in my 90s. I didn't believe her. There's no reason for me to stay alive for that long, unless God wants to play a joke on me.

I broke my hip last April 1.

Luckily, or not, I was in St. Luke's when I slipped and fell down the stairs. They whisked me away to the emergency room. During the whole time, I was wondering what if this happened at home? What if the phone was out of reach? Could I dial 911 and help would arrive?

I was in hospital for a week. My aunt took care of me and paid all the bills, which cost as much as a hefty downpayment for a new car. When I was released, she took me home back to the province. I wallowed in bed and was served my meals. After my wound healed, a physical therapist started visiting me twice a week.

I can walk now. A bit. With a cane. But not too much. "Recovery is on schedule," my doctor said.

During that whole time, I watched way too much TV and ate very little, resulting in my now trendy body type. (I should eat more now.) I filled three notebooks with all my self-pity. All without the Internet.