There comes a moment when the only available options are surrender or violence. Surrender is always a minute too early. Violence is always a second too late. Both options can be tailored to circumstance, but customizing a response in the face of inevitable failure is a waste of energy. What are the real choices, then, in reply to intolerable actions or inactions? Transforming a barbaric struggle into a hellish war requires physical and emotional fuel. Equipping angry, terminally ill patients with nuclear weapons and an opportunity to leave a legacy for a mortally wounded planet might be worth a try.
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Discouraged does not begin to describe the emotion. Despondent, hopeless, desperate, or irreparably cynical comes a little closer to capturing the emptiness of utter powerlessness. The images from last night’s dreams remain hidden behind translucent grey veils. None of the pleading words spoken in the dreams were coherent. I remember inhaling sand-laden seawater at the intersection of sand dunes and powerful waves—where the ocean was eating the remains of the corpse of the continent. It was a wretched experience…but one’s imagination does not constitute a real experience, does it?
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I arrived at the hospital around 7:30 yesterday morning. The long process of getting a transfusion of one unit of blood finally concluded around noon; the actual transfusion took less than two hours. My patience wore well; I allowed myself to drift into a strange combination of fantasy and sleep while the blood inched its way down the long tubes into my chest. At home, after a post-procedure lunch, I took a nap that lasted until this morning—with just a few moments during the night when I found myself awake.
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For some reason, I am still tired. A warm bed beckons me. I want to shut off the sizzling electrical current to my brain, at least for a while, so I can get some true rest. Last night was not restful, despite the amount of time I was more or less asleep. I will try again.
