Tuesday, December 16, 2008

No More Racing

Not for now. I've been writing, but there isn't a hell of a lot to say so I've kept it to myself. I'm back in the world of loud sounds and late nights and staying numb and dumb. My friends think I'm dead. I'm just at home. It's all this awful wrenching pain, this unspeakably heavy weight that stays with me always. It won't let go, won't let me sleep or enjoy a weekend or a cup of tea, or anything but a brace of warm sextuple bourbons and whatever follows. The bitch of it is that the pain is just manageable enough that I can grit my teeth and power through the workday, but not a whole hell of a lot else. And for what? To come home and wash some dishes, collapse flat on my back and try to pass out counting sheep? Signatures? Vertebrae? To be contorting myself every free minute of the day into some stupid new position that will let me take a deep breath without feeling like my spine is shooting tracer bullets through my lungs? My body is eating itself. Is that possible? They say that people with chronic pain die early. Here's hoping. I start my snuff habit tomorrow. Sleep won't come, I'm grinding my teeth down to stumps, nightmares every time I close my eyes. Riding is torture.

So fuck it. Signing off. No more racing, til further notice. I'll write sonnets or theater reviews or something.

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