diseases are a bizzare thing. If you don't do anything about them, they kill you. If you try and treat them, the side effects kill you. If you rationalize your will to live, you end up in dispair and pain wishing to die. If you rationalize dieing, you can't deny your will to live. It's like an endless cycle of torture and pleasure. Something horrific happens and the immediate responce is that I'm happy to be alive, blessed to have family, friends, a house, breath. For a brief moment life, just plain simple life is the greatest gift you can imagine and for a brief moment I'm happy just to be alive. . . but then reality/ the mourning process sets in and you realize that to simply live is not enough. . . you want to do, you want to be something, and the consiquenses. . . the consequenses of being ill are enourmous. First you come home and the house is in ruins. . . never mind that you left it in pristene condition, time and children always ruin any attempt at cleanliness, they are the unwitting forces of the evil entropy and they take over without a moments notice when you are ill. And bills, aside from all the bills for utilities and things such as cable and internet and phone, you have medical bills which are never as simple as the basic ones I already mentioned. No medical bills take months to process properly and you have 7 pieces of paper for each indiual thing they did to you while you were ill. Hundreds of pieces of paper come flowing into the house. . . drowning the entropy enthralled youngsters. They pile up and you try to sort them, but it's a lossing battle. YOu just don't understand how they all fit together it's like a giant jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces are the same size, color, shape and create no picture or even lay out in any direct pattern and each piece shows up individually in the mail and it's only a 50% chance that they sent you the right pieces. It's nigh impossible, but if you don't at least give it your best effort, the collection agencies call. . .they ruin your credit because you are too delriously shaken and still puking in the toilet because of the last treatment to care that the puzzle isn't put together properly. . . yes. . . this is the shit that accompanies the " and it just makes you treasure life so much more, you just appreciate everything more" bullshit you spill out your mouth because noone wants the truth. Noone wants to hear that It's misserable when you fear the public and thier germs and that if you brave them you spend a week in bed regretting that you went out to get milk. and noone wants to hear that things aren't all peachy and perfect. they can't handle it. None of them can. . . and although they still pretend in thier minds to care, to worry. . . they cut you off. They conviently don't call, email, or even chat online, It's just too much and they cut it out of thier lives. They can't deal with the stress. They simply walk away. . . because they can.
Friday, January 30, 2004