She has bruises on her elbows and on the back of her legs. I know she’s a fiery woman for her size and she seems like she wouldn’t take sh** but yet I maybe it’s a little bit of a front. I won’t ask about those bruises even though in moments of lapse, I almost ask but remember to keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to embarrass her or make her feel she’s go to lie, if it’s what it looks like.
I hate that whole system of lies or embarrassment and keeping ones mouth shut.
I miss “Skittery Pigeon”. Last time I saw her, we talked about her private life and I think I prodded too much, maybe she felt to said too much. I told her too much myself. At the end, I put my arms out, as usual, to hug her but she refused and got in her car. She just drove away.
She won’t return my calls.
My bones ache and crackle. Every time I bend down or walk down the stairs, I hear them crackling as if they’re snapping under my skin. Things hurt as if muscles and tendons are tearing from bones and maybe in some cases they are. My podiatrist said as much about my feet when I saw him last year. God, some times my feet really hurt, especially my heels.
Women are cursed in an awful sort of way. It’s not good enough that I bleed once a month but also that I have to have cramps for days before I start (these days). It’s not enough that I should bleed and hurt but that I should also have my body rebel, flinching and twitching, jerking and spasming. Thank you Nature.
Some times, when I feel my body go cold and feel like it’s going to loose control of itself, I feel like my voice is going to come out as a whisper. It’s as if I can’t control my voice either. My neck goes wobbly, my fingers move without my permission and my eyes feel like they’ll go instantly blind.
Apparently though, I’m at a therapeutic dosage. I guess I should be better at taking my medicine though. I’m trying. I’m really trying. Pushing pills down my throat … big purple-gray pills … just isn’t my idea of fun.
I almost want to live more for my dreams that for my waking time. What is that all about?
But at least I’m getting excited about my mind again. It’s isn’t just a dead sponge living in my skull. I guess I have to focus more on using it. Flexing it. Drawing thoughts out of it. Persuading it to yield more than dull and mundane sentences which bore even me.
But surprisingly, I’m good. Don’t worry about that.