I can be found midway between dismay and despair.
My thyroid has gone hyper again. This is no fun.
I can’t remember what it’s like to be well; I tend toward the melodramatic.
I am so bored.
Having to continually tell your teaching agency that no, you’re not available for work – again, is a little destructive to whatever self esteem your diseased self has in store.
I think if I learned a new language, or a musical instrument, things would be better.
Maybe stop obsessively reading The News.
Remember: a life spent reading – that is a good life.
Me and my cat. Always together. Perhaps start a humourous comic strip? Photocopy and place in local shops, bus stations, library books, post offices.
Construct a bunker in my back garden, what with Current Events. Decorate with fairy lights, bunting – to keep spirits up. Also: bottled water, canned food (variety of beans, vegetables), books, wine.
Practise meditation. Learn to calm mind.
Look at art.
In 2016 there were 7.4 billion people on the planet. Now? As of the last count, around 9000. All living underground. Radiation levels up above are still too high – although, we’re told, it won’t be long now. Just another decade, or so.
Archeologists scratching away closer to the surface than ever before have been uncovering more and more evidence of life before – well – you know your history as well as I do.
Their latest find looks to be a diary of some sort…
One year since my first lot of Lemtrada, second course coming up in a couple of weeks. And. Let’s look back over the last twelve months.
For a time, I’m sure, things were okay. But, at the moment, it feels like I’ve never not been ill. Yes, the MS’s being kept at bay – my last MRI showed NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE ACTIVITY. Which is good, obviously. But. Since my thyroid went haywire however many months ago, I hardly seem to have had one day of alrightness. And I’m sure it’s broken again. So. In conclusion.
Yeah. Could someone just rebury it? Thanks.
A buzz of late summer midges clouding around your head.
Mathematical equations scrawled on a pane of glass, signalling troubled genius.
A shoal of fish flashing silver into black, semaphoring their way who knows where.
A murmuration of starlings folding against a mid autumn sky.
I am neither young nor old.
They say she has something of the night about her.