A short while ago, mi novia persuaded me to cancel this morning’s scheduled appointment for my car’s maintenance, insisting I should not be driving in my condition. Though my joint pain and body aches are not as bad as they were at their worst, yesterday, they remain severe enough that they could make me a danger behind the wheel. I took two tablets of Motrin at 2:00 a.m., after taking two tablets seven hours earlier. The maximum recommended 24 hour dosage is six tablets; I want something considerably stronger. If I promise to use morphine or fentanyl responsibly, perhaps my doctor would prescribe an unlimited supply of one or the other? Wishful thinking, I am afraid. I will call her in a little while, though, to seek pain relief of some sort. And I will try to reschedule my car’s maintenance soon.
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Incoherent thoughts get in the way of contemplation. Efforts to think clearly are almost pointless in the face of moderate confusion—and impossible when confronted with full-on distraction. Headaches and body aches and worries and weakness scramble the brain’s attempts to given focused consideration to anything. Ideas transform into smoke and emptiness. Curiosity sinks like a stone, disappearing into an opaque, bottomless ocean. Even fire grows cold and rigid, its once red and orange flames turning muddy grey and obsidian black. Meaning degrades into useless vapor, leaving dull patches of triviality in place of everything it should have touched.
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I am unable to assemble even fragmented thoughts. So I will stop trying.
