This is one of those stubborn early mornings—the sort of introduction to daylight hours that promises a full day of argumentative thoughts. Every opinion…every idea, every emotion… will slam into fierce opposition. And those opposing positions will encounter equally steadfast enemies of stability. Except to those few people who might pay especially close attention—and notice the blank look of bewilderment on my face—the internal strife beating me senseless will be almost imperceptible. Promising hope versus resigned despair. Joy versus sorrow. Acceptance versus rejection. Belief versus skepticism. Fat and happy versus starved for affection. I seem to cultivate ennui and enthusiasm. Tattered philosophies in support of both suicide and perpetual life reside in the same place in my brain—at the same time. The opacity of confusion makes crystal clear the impurities obscuring my vision. And I am so bloody tired I could scream. But there is nothing unusual about this morning. It’s just the transformation of abnormal to normal; weird to routine. Perhaps this state of mind is a side-effect of cancer. Or maybe cancer is a side-effect of this state of mind. In my mind’s eye, I see a high-gloss, dark grey dinner plate covered with specks of dust. The duality of a dull shine speaks to me, but in a language I can no longer understand.
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Not even a drop of creativity spills from the tips of my fingers. It’s as if the spigot valve has been closed tightly, then welded permanently shut. Adding insult to injury, the spigot and all its parts and pieces were made of lead cast into a simple mold. Memory will do that, if you let it.
