The crux
The cold, hard truth: I'm sick. I have been for a long time. I'm poised at the precipice, waiting for Fate to decide whether it will push me off or yank me back to the world of the living.
I have spent years watching my own world collapse around me, unknowing at first, then with helpless fury, and desperation, and grace, then finally, when it got to a certain point, with an apathetic shrug. I have reached that fork in the road where I literally don't care which path Fate ultimately chooses.
And yet. I force myself to get up every day. I force myself to eat. I force myself to take what the doctors have doled out so blithely and cruelly, despite my protests and pleas for something else, anything else - the merciless poison that is killing my body and destroying my mind and my clarity.
I try to stay awake in this strange half-life instead of giving in to sleep.
And for some reason, I write. My body has been taken from me; I can do nothing else, nothing more taxing than sit in front of my computer, trying to speak in parables, trying to share the truths and knowledge I fucking earned the hard way. I try to speak, but I am a ghost. The question is... can a ghost speak? The answer... it can, but only in a muted whisper. My voice, like my body, like my mind, has been taken from me, and I can only whisper. Some people can hear it, yet they don't know they're only hearing a whisper - they don't know that what they hear is only a stifled, furious murmur of a bigger, better story, one I was once able to tell with achingly pretty words.
I can't speak right now, but I'll continue on and try to whisper, even if only I know it's a pale imitation of my true voice. What else can a ghost do?
I have spent years watching my own world collapse around me, unknowing at first, then with helpless fury, and desperation, and grace, then finally, when it got to a certain point, with an apathetic shrug. I have reached that fork in the road where I literally don't care which path Fate ultimately chooses.
And yet. I force myself to get up every day. I force myself to eat. I force myself to take what the doctors have doled out so blithely and cruelly, despite my protests and pleas for something else, anything else - the merciless poison that is killing my body and destroying my mind and my clarity.
I try to stay awake in this strange half-life instead of giving in to sleep.
And for some reason, I write. My body has been taken from me; I can do nothing else, nothing more taxing than sit in front of my computer, trying to speak in parables, trying to share the truths and knowledge I fucking earned the hard way. I try to speak, but I am a ghost. The question is... can a ghost speak? The answer... it can, but only in a muted whisper. My voice, like my body, like my mind, has been taken from me, and I can only whisper. Some people can hear it, yet they don't know they're only hearing a whisper - they don't know that what they hear is only a stifled, furious murmur of a bigger, better story, one I was once able to tell with achingly pretty words.
I can't speak right now, but I'll continue on and try to whisper, even if only I know it's a pale imitation of my true voice. What else can a ghost do?