The doctor's changed his mind. He's decided to increase the level of antibiotics they're giving her. I don't know whether he has hope that she'll pull through or if he just did it to placate my aunt Sandra. Now I feel like a vulture because I want her misery ended, one way or the other. To me it seems pointless to prop her up with medication if there's no chance that it will improve her quality of life...
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
Comments
Regards,
Longer Life