Once upon a time I was once upon a time. Stuck at the start never quite knowing what to do, how to feel and even how to dress. Time and uncountable moments have written me quite the story of reconciliation and brushing off the filthy ashes from my reborn self. Whatever my self is. Myself or my self. Are they the same?
Life seems to be a long string of quotes and drunken tattoos when you look at it from one of many choices of perspective. An Asian character inked upon the wrist that hopefully says “music on, world off” and not “now kindly fuck off“. Or a beautiful Arabic word on the nape of a graceful neck that reads “pinhead” not “warrior“. That’s just me, I visualise life as amusingly as I can in order to cope and get better.
Health loss, job loss and loss of function to the point I feel a physiological mess. Loss of my chosen path is an obvious tangible event but when it comes to physical and mental health, the two have become blurry and distorted over time. A snowballing collection of sick jokes with me as the brunt. I have always been able to laugh at the bleakest moments as many people do as a primal coping technique. A chuckle over my urinary catheter in 1996, a belly ache about a grand mal seizure brought on by a doner kebab. And so, to my amusement and encouragement, on.
As time passes and your persona gets a damn good kicking, eventually you rise up and give the psychosocial a throat punch. To shut up. Back off. Leave you alone so you can curl up and…
Blossom. Plants may wither from harsh elements against them but they eventually manage to bloom again.
© Copyright: Sharon Lawson™