weeping feels good when it comes.
because i'm actually feeling something.
i keep writing posts and then deleting them the next day. if it was a journal i'd be ripping out the page and tossing it into the fire.
words fall short seem all wrong and too small or not the point or who cares or just not enough.
nothing is enough. nothing meets the need. nameless endless numbing. a hardening of the flesh.
had a lover used to play guitar and its was like summer pools of sunshine and it melted me everytime. young hope with all my defenses down.
i felt everything.
i have this fear that i'll be just another story of just another person with environmental illness that everyone forgot about til one day i begin to die of this or that...then the murmurs...ooooo did you hear? how sad.
this is what happens. i've known of several e.i.s' this has happened to. and this happens to disabled folks all the time.
where did they put the need? did anyone play them guitar? did pools of sunshine touch them like ghosts of real flesh? did they converse with birdsong, argue with the wind?
i keep making the best of it. i've learned this from my mother. perpetually redefining the idea of a good life to in some way encompass the one you have. but the injustice of no access and the systemic toxicity and scraping edge of nameless is inescapable. hounds me. drains me. i worry the bitterness will break me. that the sclerosis is moving to my heart and how i wish that was just a poetic metaphor.
so its good to weep. because i'm feeling something.
like singing strings it brings
my defenses down.