Twenty-One
More notes. Lots.
Day One: Today is a translation day, even though I don’t want it to be. I want to drown in a mire of despair. Painkillers aren’t working. I’m not tired beyond bearing, but it hurts to do almost everything. Even breathing. I want to deny this thing’s control over my body. I don’t want it as part of me.
Translation is easier when I’m stuck in bed all day or when I can’t walk but everything else is fine. Through a fog. Not through this mist of razors. I walked outside on the way to the doctor and the rain pierced everywhere it touched. It opened minuscule wounds and my soul seeped out.
The doctor said, “We can’t control this symptom. Rest till it goes.” Resting doesn’t help. My legs wander around the bottom end of my bed, trying to find a place that doesn’t hu
