I can’t even explain why illness and not even knowing if I am ill makes me want to fill my glass until my body says
Do you like living here?
You live alone
You love your brother
You love your niece
You love yourself (finally)
I know this because you are;
you are kind to you, softer and more trusting for all the misdiagnose or the real ones, diagoned that seemed to be on top of life’s list as:
you are soft when summer was hell feeling – You, seen foraging for more moments of assurance just ‘like before’ when you really knew.
you are whimsical too
your studies of the afterlife have brought you great ease as to ‘will the waves of fukashima do away with me, with ALL OF THIS?’
will I and this life be looked BACK upon like from the future as some Atlantis dissappeared?
where one thinks they know what happened to those lives but never we do,
just guessing and projecting our own lives now.
I hide when I am contemplating my end.
I am not afraid of this ending I say.
but then some blossom blooms
or some smile transports me
or I clean my home and am satisfied,
or see progress in the body
or have an amazing convo with brother
and have a wonderful ‘feeling moment’
how I love this life.
then I find those people once again
living their lives
speaking out in a way I love to hear,
I remember much of why I love them
then I love them
what happens next is I forget to watch the shows that tell me I am doomed and we are all fucked up.
I bask in this ultimate feeling of
letting go all resistance
like in heaven… just like it.
reasons or lack of reasons for being absent in what was a life I lead before a year ago