I try not to get too introspective, but I fail. It's the nature of the beast. Can't not think, right? Can't turn the brain off at will. Too easy. So we end up thinking. And fair warning, this is going to get pretty introspective, and not necessarily in a good way.
It's been the seventh consecutive year of steadily - albeit slowly - worsening chronic illness.
That's a hard thing to look in the eye, you know? That's a hard thing to cope with. I mean. One of these illnesses just started affecting me worse after I turned thirty, but one of them was brought into being by two separate bouts of illness that left me... basically fucked.
A lot of life, passing by, half unlived.
It is the hand we are dealt, though. We can only play with the cards we hold.
Looking into the future can be hard, from that perspective.
Like at one point I legitimately thought there wasn't going to be one. I thought I was dead in the next day, week, month. I couldn't envisage there being a future, certainly not one to plan for. That isn't even to do with the lung condition, that's just depression talking. (I say JUST depression. You know what I mean.)
I just want to finish the book I am working on, generally experience as little stress and suffering as possible, and... yeah. I understand what dad meant when he said to me that all he wanted was some peace. I can understand that.
Just keep on keeping on, right?
Happy birthday, me.
Sorry it's a short one, this week. I'm busy painting Brighton red.
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