Frail
Dear Anton Pavlovitch,
I've been feeling odd lately, as if I didn't belong anywhere. Even writing in a foreign language makes me think, "Why am I writing in a language that is not the one I use to communicate with the people I meet most of the time?" Everything I do makes me feel like an actor who hasn't rehearsed properly and goes through certain scenes like a robot, without really having made it clear why the character he's playing says and does the things he is expected to say and do. Awareness has left me. I'm adrift. I have no idea how it happened. All I have is a few clues. But they don't add to much. I have no cards up my sleeve. I have become very withdrawn.
In July of last year I was operated on for the removal of a vast collection of stones that had decided to play havoc with my bladder. It was an emergency operation. I had been in pretty bad shape for longer than I could afford. Then there was the matter of impressive amounts of blood coming out. That made the trick. I was rushed to the hospital where they did a few tests and concluded that saying that I was in bad shape was an understatement. I was operated on in all haste and stayed in the hospital for thirteen days. One month later, when I saw the doctor who had operated on me for the usual post-surgical check-up, he bluntly told me that I could have died. I think that was the starter for me to feel so odd now. There are moments when I become convinced that I will never again be the same person.
And what exactly has changed?
The knowledge. Somehow I have been there. I know exactly how frail we are, all of us. The difference between being around or not is nothing. It's like a thread of hair. There are so many things that we know in theory but there is a big change of perspective the moment we get some practical experience.
Better stop. This thing is not making much sense.
I've been feeling odd lately, as if I didn't belong anywhere. Even writing in a foreign language makes me think, "Why am I writing in a language that is not the one I use to communicate with the people I meet most of the time?" Everything I do makes me feel like an actor who hasn't rehearsed properly and goes through certain scenes like a robot, without really having made it clear why the character he's playing says and does the things he is expected to say and do. Awareness has left me. I'm adrift. I have no idea how it happened. All I have is a few clues. But they don't add to much. I have no cards up my sleeve. I have become very withdrawn.
In July of last year I was operated on for the removal of a vast collection of stones that had decided to play havoc with my bladder. It was an emergency operation. I had been in pretty bad shape for longer than I could afford. Then there was the matter of impressive amounts of blood coming out. That made the trick. I was rushed to the hospital where they did a few tests and concluded that saying that I was in bad shape was an understatement. I was operated on in all haste and stayed in the hospital for thirteen days. One month later, when I saw the doctor who had operated on me for the usual post-surgical check-up, he bluntly told me that I could have died. I think that was the starter for me to feel so odd now. There are moments when I become convinced that I will never again be the same person.
And what exactly has changed?
The knowledge. Somehow I have been there. I know exactly how frail we are, all of us. The difference between being around or not is nothing. It's like a thread of hair. There are so many things that we know in theory but there is a big change of perspective the moment we get some practical experience.
Better stop. This thing is not making much sense.