Scattered to the Winds

Outside, there is yet another gale blowing, and my thoughts are scattered, my brain jumping from one to another in an incoherent, yet still reasonably articulate way. Like Lear upon the blasted heath, today I will make no sense whatsoever or too much sense.

It is too cold for spring, not the sharp snap of cold that snatches the breath from your body. Not the bone-chilling cold that will not leave your body, no matter how much you layer up. It's a creeping kind of cold that follows you around the house, lurks in corners, and blasts you when you least expect it. I need to feel sunshine on my skin.

I contemplate leaving the house. I want to buy crochet hooks and wonder if that might help me capture the gossamer threads of my many fleeting thoughts and weave them into something coherent.

I try not to dwell on the fact that soon, if my twisted auto-immune system allows it, I will be sliced open and a part of my body removed, to be replaced by a chemical element that is two times stronger than aluminium and 45% lighter than steel. The process to get to that point is overwhelming, a veritable manual of lifestyle changes that I am weaving into a 'How to Live Longer' manual just for me. I know that if I want to live much longer, I need to win the Lotto or rob a bank. It is more expensive to live than it is to die.

I do not have a bucket list. I do not have a bucket, not even one with a hole in it. Soon, I will barely have a pot to piss in. Yet for now I do still have choice, a degree of freedom, a voice. That is a lot more than many people, even increasingly, citizens of ' the free world' possess. I will continue to howl into the wind on my own blasted heath. I will suffer the constraints of medicalisation so that I may walk with the hares once again.