Malady

I have had a bad malady for the past few days.  No need to go into it, but my face is deformed and I am in much pain.  The drugs the doctor has given me do not seem to be working.  He said to call if they don't, but that was Thursday.  Who do I call on Saturday?  Sunday?  I have been alone for two days with only pain and dark thoughts.

But that is just the set-up, not the point.  We all suffer, I mean, and I don't want to highlight mine over yours.  But if I am around later and can think about it right, I will try to make mine more interesting than yours.  There is that.

I keep thinking about dying.  If I were to die, what would be the last thoughts, the last images I would call up to see me on my way?  What would I miss most sharply?

It all gets confused.

Then I wonder about regrets.  Would I have them?  Would they be for what I did or what I didn't do?

And I wonder if I would feel guilt.

I have a feeling, though, that I would like to explain things.  A lilfe is never what it seems to be.  The underlying motives for an action is the story, not the action itself.  At bottom, we are all fools and simps stumbling about, bumping our noses in the dark, driven by partial understanding and ignorance.

The girl in this photo has stories.  I am desirous to get them.  We had plans.  She said she would tell them all to me and that I could steal them and use them.  Then her boyfriend roughed her up on last time and she went away.  She is the inspiration for "Drug Skinny," a collection of unwritten tales.  But she will come back, she says, and she will tell them to me.  Why am I so desirous of them?  Because they are full of the things we consider bad and wrong, full of conflict and bumping noses in the dark.  And I want to know why.

She has unsuspected talent, too.  She wanted to use this photo for her FB page, so she added the top.  I complimented her and told her to stop fucking with my pictures.