You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.
How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.
I will not be ‘famous,’ ‘great.’ I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one’s self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
He went to the doctor. The doctor didn’t look at him, but rather beside him, even when he spoke, like there was someone else there he couldn’t see.
“You’re getting older,” the doctor said to the almost empty space. “Your shape is changing. It’s nothing new. All those years of food and sun and work, they’re all crammed in there, thrumming in your body. This will go on till you die.”
The walls seemed very near around them, white and edgeless.
“And it doesn’t get better. It gets worse,” the doctor said. “No matter how much you do, there’s always more you haven’t done. Those masses of inaction become trapped inside the brain and incubate and cloud your sense of self. So that by the time you start to feel you understand how or who you are or where or what you’ve been, that person is already gone. It’s happening to everybody, always, even now.”
The doctor wrote out some prescriptions — pills for the morning, pills for night. He told him to exercise more, and to rest more.
The pills didn’t help. No matter how much he took or how often, at night when he got home and tried to sit, he found his blood continued thickening, getting harder even faster than it had before, his legs staying numb even longer.